The End of the Earth
by Miss Katonic
Summary: A whole crew was willing to journey to the edge of the world to bring Jack back from the grave. Someone had to feel the same for Barbossa.
1. A Happy Crew is the Best Crew

**The End of the Earth**

**A Pirates of the Caribbean Fanfiction**

**By Miss Katonic**

**/\**

**Prologue**

The darkness, cold and damp on her skin, soaked through to her very bones and the shivered pulse of water breaking on the rocks did her superstitious nerves no better. A fleck of moonlight beat through the dark and glinted on a tide pool. Gold glittered through the shallows, and she knew she had found the correct cave.

In all the long time she had known him, he had never allowed her entrance into this dragon's horde. It seemed a shame now that she stood within these rough walls, that she could see none of its splendor.

With supreme caution, she picked her way along the rocks, often slipping into the cold saltwater or tripping in a sinkhole. The clouds parted for a moment, allowing the moon to reach its silvery fingers through the holes of the cave. One moment was enough for her to locate her prize. Her breath caught in her throat upon seeing it, and she scrambled forward, abandoning all concern for everything else.

Her hands grasped at the clothes as she knelt by the body, and the moon slipped behind the clouds once more. Darkness covered her world like death as she laid her head on the corpse's chest. She felt his face with her fingers, recognizing every feature. Hot tears spilled from her closed eyes as she felt the wound with her other hand, knowing he'd died in pain. Another sliver of light graced the ground several yards away and shone off an object. She looked up and saw an apple, as green and waxy as a leaf, half-hidden in shadow.

"Damn you," she whispered, shakily rising to her feet. Tears coursed down her cheeks. The moon found victory again, and shone full force through the cracks and holes in the cave, illuminating the body. The dark blood, dried and stiff, absorbed the light as she gazed down at it. A shriek ripped itself from her throat and she seized her hair in her passion.

"Damn you," she screamed, her voice echoing off every stone and reflecting back every fallen hope within her heart.

**Chapter One**

"Promise me you'll be home for my birthday," Miranda bargained, holding her brother's haversack defiantly behind her back. Quentin rolled his eyes and made to snatch it from her hands, but she snaked back and stared expectantly at him. "Promise?"

"I _can't_. You know that. I don't know when I'll be back," Quentin explained, and upon seeing his sister's glare, sighed. "I'll try?"

"You'd better." Miranda caught the dark-haired cabin boy by the shoulder as he rushed up the dock and shoved the sack in his arms. "Hide this so Quentin won't find it," she ordered, smiling triumphantly at Quentin. The small boy nodded, confused, but obliging, and hurried on his way. As Quentin was turning to chase after the child, Miranda launched herself on her brother with a shriek of laughter and called to the boy, "Run, Will! Faster!"

"I'll find it," Quentin growled, spinning around in efforts to shake the fifteen year old girl from his back. Miranda slipped off willingly, but wobbled on her feet dangerously close to the edge of the dock. Quentin yanked her forward with a laugh.

Miranda's smile faded slightly as she glanced at the ship her brother was about to board. Quentin knew that look. "I'll be back before you know it," he promised firmly. Miranda looked back at him.

"It's not right when you're gone."

"You'll be fine," Quentin assured her, dropping a hand on her shoulder. "And when I return, I'll start apprenticing Old Jeremy Brown."

A full smile finally returned to Miranda's face at the prospect of her brother no longer leaving so often and for so long. She nodded, and Quentin squared his shoulders and jerked his chin up. "I have to go now," he said with resignation.

Miranda gave him a final hug goodbye and watched him as he boarded the ship. He'd be gone for months, she knew, guarding the costly goods to be shipped to England. It was a job she knew he hated, but he had a responsibility to the navy.

As the ship slowly disappeared on the horizon, a north wind rippled the bay and tangled her hair behind her. Change was coming.

/\

"Pirates?" Miranda's mother sounded incredulous.

"He died an honorable death, of that you can be assured," the general said softly, clearly aware his words presented no comfort. Miranda looked at the floor, scarcely willing to believe the words spoken.

"Pirates are cowards, ma'am," the general continued, "the cheat and betray every code of decent humanity to get what they want. Even so, _The Defiant_ was well-guarded, but the report claims the ambush was at night."

"That reason does not stand on its own," Miranda's father argued. "Quentin was trained to fight in all conditions, was he not?" The general's face remained impassive, but a muscle tightened in his neck.

"My superiors, sir," he began solidly, "are under the impression that the captain of _The Defiant_ was not in his right mind when the attack occurred."

The father remained silent and stared at the general. The latter tilted his head in a gesture of humoring his will, and finished, "If you must know, the records recovered ramble on about a ship of _cursed pirates_ that become rotting _corpses_ in the moonlight. _Why_ the captain was even allowed to control the ship is beyond me, but if you will allow me, sir, I have fourteen other families to inform of the death of their son, _including _a widowed mother who will never see her ten year old son again."

The general stood, red-faced and irritated, and left. Miranda's mother burst into tears as her father held her close. Miranda made to leave the sitting room, but only reached the doorway when she collapsed as she wept for her parents and for a place in her heart that would never be whole again.

/\

Three years passed without ceremony. One evening Miranda found herself sitting on a high cliff by the sea with her friend Antony Murtogg by her side.

Antony, a guard of the queen's navy, had met Miranda some months ago at a military function, and the two had become inseparable since. Antony did not possess great quantities of intelligence, but his loyalty and love were strong enough for his friends to overlook his often slow-witted comments. Antony did not like to talk much, perhaps he realized how simple his remarks could sound or perhaps he preferred quiet, but he was a thoughtful listener, and no silence with Antony could ever be considered an awkward silence.

Miranda leaned back, watching the blue-gray horizon in thought while Antony pondered ways he could "accidently" put his hand on hers. She looked rather pretty in the sunset, he noted, appreciating the way the falling sunlight banked off her loose curls.

A ship bell sounded in the distance and Miranda jerked, looking around. Seeing his chance, Antony sat up straighter and flung his arm forward. The plan had been to softly brush his hand across hers, but he miscalculated. His hand caught her wrist; the wrist, unfortunately, that she had been supporting her weight on. She flailed backwards with absolutely no grace or dignity to save her. Antony sighed.

"Isn't it late for the bells?" Miranda asked, looking up from the grass at Antony as if nothing had happened. Antony nodded, standing up and turning toward town. Miranda, however, looked the other way and promptly gasped.

Port Royal was nestled in a bay, and the outcropping of rock that she and Antony rested on not only overlooked her town, but also a small cove shielded from the view of the British port. During the day the cove was a labyrinth of coral and sharp rocks, but as the tide came in it harbored small vessels of men that couldn't afford docking space in Port Royal. This evening only one ship dominated the cove.

It was made of wood dark with age and sails ragged with neglect. On the mast hung a black flag. There was no wind to pull it, withholding the identity of the ship's master.

Miranda tugged at Antony's jacket and pointed to the ship. Antony frowned. "Not many ships that big would risk that place."

A wind lifted Miranda's hair from her face, and she scrutinized the mystery ship. The same wind passed down the cliff and ruffled the flag long enough for the crossbones to become evident.

"Pirates!" She hissed, hate and anger welling within her heart. Antony, aware of the cause of her brother's death, understood her feelings as he watched a small boat full of pirates row to shore. He knew he had to report their presence, but the only way down the cliff was a path that went towards the cove and then wrapped back to Port Royal. He couldn't send Miranda back to town without the risk of pirates intercepting the path. He turned towards her and saw in her face that she also realized this.

"I need to go," he said hesitantly. "Stay here and stay low. I'll be back with help as soon as I can."

"But-" Miranda protested, but Antony had already taken off down the path, and there was nothing left to do but wait.

When Quentin had been killed, Miranda's perception of pirates had transformed from a nuisance and mild hazard to fearsome monsters disguised as humans. The mere thought that such beasts were so near consumed her with such horror and fury that she knew not whether she would rather run away or run to them to seek her vengeance.

She looked down at the dress she was wearing, and at her pale, smooth hands. A slight smile passed her lips as she realized what foolishness it would be to try to take on a crew of pirates. As she chuckled to herself, she looked down and noticed something long and slim half-hidden in the long grass.

Antony had taken off his belt so he could relax more as they sat together, and had left it and his pistol on the ground. True to his character, he had forgotten it in the moment of haste. Cautiously, Miranda picked up the pistol and turned it over in her hands. She held it at an arm's length, aiming it at the ship's flag.

A cannon at Port Royal sounded. The alarm had been set in motion, but Miranda had been startled. Her fingers slipped and fired the gun into the sky.

The sound echoed into the cove, and she heard several shouts ring out from the ship. Panic seized her common senses as she realized she'd given away her position, and she began running down the path. Night had fallen and upon entering the sparse forest she could hardly see anything. She paused, hoping for her eyes to adjust. Footsteps clambered towards her and she picked up her skirts and ran. A pair of thick hands clamped down on her arms and a growling chuckle trickled from behind her.

"'Allo, poppet."

"Let go of me!" She screamed, terror choking her voice.

"You fired a gun at us." His scratched words were next to her head, his hot breath in her ear.

"Bang!" a second voice contributed, and then burst out in manic laughter.

"I didn't mean to; let me go!" Miranda begged, squirming against his tight grip.

"I think she needs a lesson taught to 'er, eh? Silly girl needs t'know which toys are dangerous."

"Silly girl, silly girl," the second man parroted in a sing-song tone.

"We heard the cannons," the first man hissed raggedly, "now when d'you suppose the coats will be here?"

"Any minute," Miranda replied hatefully.

"In that case . . ." the growling voice trailed off, and Miranda found herself being lifted off her feet and slung over the man's shoulder like a sack of grain.

"Time to go, silly girl," the second man sang, skipping along behind them as the man carrying her hastened his pace down the cliff.

Miranda screamed, hoping her voice would carry. Neither man seemed to care that she was so adamantly protesting the current situation. After a few minutes the men stopped, and she was flung to the ground. The wind was knocked from her chest as she hit the sand, and several new voices began jeering at her.

"Time to meet da cap'tin, poppet. 'E's angry with you."

The moon was hidden behind the clouds, and though she could hardly make out the figures around her, she knew the silhouette of the captain immediately; his form was intimidating and demanded authority. His hat was interesting.

"And what be yer name?" His voice was low and gravelly.

"Miranda Farthing," she replied, petrified in fear.

"And I take that yer the one who signaled our peaceful arrival with a gun shot?"

"It was an accident," she pleaded, straightening up. A hand fell heavily on her shoulder restraining further movement.

"Be it accident or no, we're still about to be greeted by the coats, aren't we?"

Miranda didn't feel an affirmative word was necessary.

"Let's move, men!" he barked, whirling around. The pirates began shuffling around, but the man holding her down remained close. Miranda struggled fruitlessly against his grip for a moment, and the captain turned around again.

"I hope ye like the sea, Miss Farthing," he began mirthfully. "It may be bad luck fer a woman to be on board, but my men do like new entertainment, and a happy crew is the best crew, don't ye agree?"

"No!" Miranda shrieked as the meaning sunk in, but she was already being dragged towards the small boat and was thrown unceremoniously into it. She gave one more scream before a hand slapped itself over her mouth.

"A happy crew is the best crew! The best crew is a happy crew!" the pirate idiot sang happily.

The room she was shoved into was dark and dank. A wet rope lay coiled about her feet and something metal brushed her shoulder. She pounded on the door, shrieking and hoping beyond all hopes that the soldiers would come to rescue her.

"Anchors away!" she heard several voices shout, and the ship began rocking even more so than it was before. Miranda crumpled to the floor, sobbing as she curled up in a ball, and it was in that position that Captain Barbossa found her the next morning.


	2. Ridiculous Girl

**Chapter Two**

A sharp kick to her rib woke Miranda successfully. She gave a yelp in pain as she looked up at her assailant, and the memory of the night before hurt her as much the man's boot.

"Mornin', sunshine," the captain cackled, wrenching her up by her collar and setting her on her feet.

"A simple nudge wakes me up just as easily," Miranda retorted, rather surprised at her own boldness. The captain grinned, cocking his head at a bemused angle.

"I'd keep that in mind," he began, turning away, "if I cared."

"Where are you taking me?" Miranda demanded, following him. The captain didn't look behind as he answered smoothly, "If you insist on followin' me, t'my cabin, I suppose."

"That's not what I-" Miranda argued, but the captain whirled around.

"Let me set you straight," he growled, "I'm not takin' you _anywhere_; you're coming with us while we sail where we please. If you were expectin' us t'lead you on a quest, missy, think again. We're but humble pirates, and stealin' and pillagin' is all we're good fer."

He paused, his dark eyes scrutinizing her face, and he finished, "You must be hungry."

Miranda was rather taken aback at this comment, but nodded despite her surprise. The captain beckoned her into a dark room. A thick wooden table black with age stood in the middle of the room and was laden with every kind of food imaginable.

"Eat your fill," he willed her, stepping aside.

Miranda looked quizzically at him. "Why are you doing this?" The captain's brow furrowed as he watched her expectantly to explain herself.

"Why bother being kind if you're only going to dehumanize me and set me before the mercy of your crew?"

The captain laughed heartily, and waved his hand away as if dismissing her question. Miranda, however, refused to stay unanswered.

"You will learn, Miss Farthing, that pirates such as meself rarely act through a designated plan. We simply . . . act, and see what happens. Now, eat."

Still rather uneasy, Miranda slid into a chair at the table, but merely looked at all the food. "Why should I find myself trusting you? I don't even know your name."

"I find you a very ridiculous girl," the captain growled, "and you will call me Captain Barbossa." Without another word he left the room, slammed the door, and Miranda heard the metallic grinding on the lock and knew she was trapped in the room.

_Barbossa_. The name was familiar. Miranda wracked her brain, willing herself to remember why she had heard it before. A sudden memory erupted in her mind. A spring night of little consequence several months ago.

-------------------------

"Scare me, Paul Mullroy. Do your worst," Henrietta giggled teasingly, carefully watching the British guard.

"I'm sure you've heard the legend of the cursed ship and the crew of the damned," Paul drawled.

"Is this the one with the hook-handed captain and young girl with a pure heart?" Antony asked, laughing. Paul scowled at him and replied, "Nonsense, that's not scary, is it?"

"It's romantic, Paul, so it has everything that scares you," Miranda shot scathingly, but with a friendly smile. "Love, commitment, women."

The three laughed and even Paul cracked a grin at the joke. A silence fell on the four friends as they sat on the dock looking out to sea. The sun had long sank beneath the waves and the soft color of night filled the sky.

"There is a ship, they say" Paul began, his voice low and not at all fear-inducing due to his South-London accent, "that is faster than any vessel in the Queen's navy. Her sails are riddled with holes, her hull is so pocked with scars from battles that they say it is the devil's will that keeps her afloat. "

Henrietta shivered in the cool night air, which encouraged him to embellish his story. "The crew, they say, are demons trapped in human form, and only in the moonlight are they given their Hellish, rotting forms back. The captain is named Barbossa- Luciferian for 'Satan's shadow.' It is said that he has been killed several times, but he is _so_ evil, that Hell itself spat him back out again."

"Where do they . . . these legends say that they go?" Antony asked, his voice rather soft and timid. Miranda glanced with merriment upon her friend's ashen face. Upon her gaze he instantly blushed, but by this time Paul was ready to answer the question.

"They say that Barbossa has a certain loathing for our very own Port Royal. It seems there was once a vast treasure hidden somewhere in this very town, but it was stolen from him. On dark, dark nights, when the moon is . . ." Paul surveyed the sky, and finished, "but a half moon, he leaves his ship and wanders the empty streets, stealing hapless townsfolk from their beds and sacrificing them to his wicked maker in hopes of using their blood to help him find his treasure."

"Ooh, well done, Master Mullroy!" Henrietta exclaimed, clasping her hands to her throat and widening her eyes in mock terror. "You even managed to wrangle in a bit to make me afraid to walk home by myself." Paul grinned.

"I'm going to need a big, strong, British guard by my side," she continued, rising to her feet and yawning.

"Would you like me to escort you home, Antony?" Miranda whispered to the pale and slightly quaking form of her friend.

Antony bit his lip and gave a curt nod. Miranda smiled, slipping her hand into his as they parted from Henrietta and Paul, and began the walk to the barracks.

-------------------------

Miranda picked up an apple. Its skin was smooth and cool. She traced her fingertips over it, searching for any kind of oddity that might signify that it had been poisoned. Finding nothing, she gingerly bit into it and savored the juicy meat.

When only the core was left, she stood and went to the window. A great expanse of ocean met her eyes, and the longer she gazed, the more it seemed to stretch beyond the horizon. An idea collided with her brain as she thought, and she rushed to the door and pressed her ear against it. She heard the sounds of orders being shouted and the thudding of booted feet across the deck. She shifted to the window by the door and looked out of its rippled surface. It seemed that there was no one guarding the door.

She seized a fork from the table and pried a tine away from the others with the aid of a knife, and then began picking the lock.

It was harder work than she would have imagined, but at long length she heard a metallic click sound her victory. She slowly turned the doorknob and opened it a crack to look out. A man rushed by, his back to her, followed swiftly by another, but she was not seen.

She gently closed the door again, and began looking around the room and assessing its contents. The drapes by the window were too close to the wall to present enough room for her to inconspicuously fit behind. It was under the bolted down, black velvet chaise longue that Miranda found her sanctuary. She slid beneath it and found that it was almost too short to fit her, but would serve her purpose. Her dress was of dark colors, which disguised her well with shadow and the aged wooden floor.

It was terribly uncomfortable, and Miranda realized she had no idea how long she would be in hiding. She pried herself out from under it and snatched several apples from the bowl of fruit and a few slices of bread, and returned to her place.

It was only a matter of time before Barbossa realized she was missing, and the alarm was sounded. Men that were on break were ordered to search the ship, and those on duty were to keep a sharp lookout for anything in a dress.

Several uncomfortable hours passed, and just as Miranda was considering stretching out her full length, the door to the cabin slowly opened. Two large boots crossed the floor at sat at the table. She heard sounds of eating and drinking, and then, oddly enough, a very meaningful, "Damn," in a voice she recognized.

Barbossa stood from the table, but didn't moves. In a flurry of movement he was on his knees, looking under the table. Miranda withheld a gasp; if he turned his head slightly to the right he would see her. Fortunately, he stood up and walked to the window instead. She heard the sound of ripping cloth, and one of the drapes was thrown to the ground by her and a cloud of dust exploded from the folds of the fabric.

The captain emitted an angry oath as the other curtain hurtled to the ground, and he began tearing apart the room. Frightened, Miranda glanced at the closed door; she knew her time was running out.

"Cap'tin," a voice called, "storm's a-brewin'. The crew is waitin' for yer orders."

Barbossa stopped his rummaging and stomped across the room and out the door, shouting angrily at the men beyond the door. Miranda, hardly able to believe her luck, watched the door swing close behind the two, and cautiously slid out to the middle of the floor. The ship pitched abruptly, and she nearly fell, but steadied herself on the bolted-down table. An apple rolled across her foot and she snatched it up, taking a bite as she looked around.

In the chaos the storm would bring to the crew, she knew this was her hope of escape. She seized one of the dishes off the table and slammed it against the window. The rippled pane shattered and Miranda looked wildly around for something that would float. She knew that her chances of surviving a storm out in open water were slim, but she would rather die than be held at the mercy of pirates.

"Gotcha!" A rough voice shouted triumphantly. Miranda whirled around to see Barbossa standing in the doorway, a satisfied grin on his face.

Without hesitation, Miranda flung herself out the window and into the growing swells of the mist-blanketed ocean.

The water was cold as it slapped painfully against her body upon impact. She gasped from shock, and looked up into the darkening sky. In the distance, lightning arced across the clouds and thunder swiftly followed. She looked back to see the ship, and saw Barbossa's surprised face watching her from the window.

The winds picked up, tossing waves at her as she struggled on. Her weight of her dress pulled her under several times until she gave up, ripping the dress off and casting it aside.

Then came the rain. Sheets of water disturbed the already churning sea, and it was all Miranda could do to keep her eyes open. She kicked the water furiously to swim away from the pirate ship but fatigue was already settling within her limbs. She gasped in water as she tried to breathe, and a coughing fit wracked her frame. Panic overcame her as she lost control of her body against the rough waves. A scream that tore from her mouth was quickly stifled by a wave slapping her beneath the surface. She swam desperately to find air again, but realized with the twisting of the water she had become disoriented.

Pressure began to build up within her chest as her lungs demanded oxygen. Thinking became a luxury her brain could not spare her. She fought the water in one last explosion of energy and her head broke the surface. Sucking in deep breaths of air, she looked around. The ship was nowhere to be seen.

Dying rather than remaining in the bonds of pirates had seemed so noble when she had been back on the ship looking down at the sea. Now all she wanted was life. The mist that had enveloped the pirate ship seemed to fade now that the ship had gone, and Miranda was surprised to see that through the grey veil of rain she could see for some ways.

A yellow-gold light flickered in the distance, and rekindled Miranda's hope and strength. She fought the waves aggressively as she progressed towards the light. A wall of water collapsed on her, but she bobbed back to the surface with adrenaline-filled determination. The light proved to be aboard a dark ship as she neared it, and soon she could hear shouts of men from the deck.

The wind-driven rain lashed into her eyes and mouth as she shrieked for help. Another wave knocked her underwater, but this time a pair of arms wrapped around her and brought her back to the surface. She clawed at the man holding her and felt the two of them being dragged towards the ship. Once against the Jacob's ladder, he pulled her out of the water and pushed her onto the deck.

She rolled on her stomach and coughed, trying to rid herself of all the water in her lungs. Rain beat down harder than ever on her back and she curled up tightly. She heard the voices of the men around her but comprehended nothing. One helped her to her feet and supported her into a room and set her in a chair. She looked up to see an elderly man, his face framed with powder white curls and a prestigious hat upon his head.

"Madame," he began, "are you ill?"

"I don't think so," she replied, and the man stood, took off his dark coat with gold trappings, and draped it on her shoulders. She pulled it close to her body as she smiled gratefully up at him. He took his seat again and continued, "My name is Commodore Emmet Dunlop, and if you would be so good as to tell me who you are and where you are from, madame, I will see to it that you are returned to your home."

"Miranda Farthing, sir. Port Royal is my home."

"I see," the man said, standing. "Were you, by chance, any relation to a Lieutenant Quentin Farthing?"

"He was my brother," Miranda replied eagerly, "did you know him?"

"I was a friend of the man who captained _The Defiant_," he answered softly, walking over to a desk and opening a drawer.

"I heard the captain went insane," Miranda said softly. The commodore slammed the drawer shut angrily. "Captain Gideon was of sound mind the day I saw him leave. Madness does not strike so swiftly. It makes no difference," he added, returning to his seat, and Miranda noticed he held a small leather book in both his hands, "that I tell this to you; I would just as soon tell it to the cousin of the cabin boy from _The Defiant._"

Miranda felt less than flattered at this comment, but said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

"Gideon wrote of cursed pirates in his final account. He wrote that they turned to skeletal corpses when the moonlight touched them. Within his book I found this." He withdrew a small coin no larger than a half sovereign and handed it to her. It was plated in a gold so bright and yellow that Miranda could only stare in wonder. On both sides was carved a skull with primitive symbols surrounding it.

"A pirate's medallion?" Miranda inquired, turning it over in her fingers.

"On that ship," Commodore Dunlop started, "was a delivery of tax for the queen. Records claim that there was a whole collection of identical coins such as the one you are holding, but that no two of them came from the same person. The ship, as I'm sure you were told, was burned in the water. From what was salvaged, almost all the money remained. The only missing amount was what the collection of those coins totaled."

"You mean to say," Miranda began, "that the pirates who destroyed _The Defiant_ wanted only these?" she handed the coin back to the commodore as he nodded.

"And they were willing to kill for it." Dunlop added darkly.

"Why are you telling me this?" Miranda asked finally. Dunlop hesitated, and then answered, "I have created my own theories as to the mystery of the last hours aboard _The Defiant_, and I have needed to voice them to see if they could be even conceivable. Now please sleep, Miss Farthing, you need to rest. You shall have my bed this evening and in the morning I shall set course for Port Royal."

The man stood and walked to the door. As he was opening it Miranda called out, "Thank you, Commodore, for saving my life."

Dunlop smiled, and slipped out the door.

Miranda took off her wet clothes and wrapped herself up in a blanket. She laid down on the bed in the corner, and with thoughts of her life retuning to the was , she fell asleep.


	3. A Pirate Could Never Love

Author's Note: I'm a bad person. My most sincere apologies about how long it took to post this chapter, but work and school have been taking their toll on my writing time.

Chapter Three

Six months had passed since Miranda returned to the loving arms of Colonel Farthing and his wife. In that time she returned to her normal self, but perhaps talked less than she once had. At this time England claimed to be suffering the harsh winds of a gray winter, but in the Caribbean the equatorial sky remained a warm, sunny blue.

It was in the month of January that word reached Miranda of her cousin's engagement in Georgetown. In less than a week she found herself standing on the docks, one steamer trunk, and waiting to board one the many military vessels headed for the Cayman Islands to attend the wedding.

She turned around to wave once more at her mother and father, and then walked rather reluctantly up the gangway. She hadn't been aboard a ship since she was on Commodore Dunlop's.

Her quarters were small and cramped; barely enough room for a bed and a desk, but the voyage was only to be a few days. Miranda shoved her trunk under the bolted down bed and went above deck. A very young woman stood by the rail, waving ecstatically to the small crowd on the dock.

"Will you be returning to Port Royal?" Miranda asked the girl, joining her. The girl turned, smiling, and answered, "No, I am going with my father, the captain of this ship, to the Cayman Islands and then we will return to England. He is retiring."

Miranda reflected on this girl's words, remembering a time long ago when she herself had lived in England. She had only been five when Colonel Farthing had been deployed to Port Royal.

"How wonderful," Miranda said sincerely, gave her name, and asked for the girl's.

"Emma Reginald," she answered cheerily, "You and I are going to become friends on this passing, I know it."

Miranda absently agreed, and Emma invited her to her room, which she explained was much nicer.

"Besides," Emma began brightly, glancing at a nearby crewman watching them with interest. "We don't need these sailors ogling at us." Miranda followed the girl to a good-sized room with dark polished wood and white upholstered furniture.

Emma flopped on the bed and propped her chin up with her fists, watching Miranda carefully.

"So," she started conversationally, "why are you heading to the islands?"

"My cousin is getting married soon," Miranda began, but realized that something was distracting Emma, for she fidgeted with a lock of hair and had turned her gaze out the wide window.

Not especially fond of being ignored, even by a girl she had hardly known for fifteen minutes, Miranda stopped herself, and asked, "What troubles you?"

"I've fallen in love, Miranda!" Emma squealed happily, rolling onto her back. "I'm the happiest woman in the world!"

After such a display Miranda doubted that Emma had yet reached womanhood, but smiled anyway. "Who is he?"

"A pirate!" Emma whispered, her bright eyes sparkling delightedly with the scandal.

"You must not know him very well, then," Miranda found herself saying before she could stop herself, but her words did nothing to dampen the child's spirits.

"I don't!" she exclaimed. "I saw him when my father docked in Tortuga some weeks ago."

"Tortuga?" Miranda repeated haughtily, recognizing the port as one of the most heathen, cantankerous, and squalid town infested with pirate filth. She looked at the girl, barely seventeen and dressed primly in a yellow chiffon summer dress. "What were you doing there?"

"Oh," Emma exhaled, "Father didn't want to, but a recent storm completely destroyed his mainsail and he needed the closest island at which to harbor." Her eyes sparkled as she continued, "I only ventured to the town once, and even then Father never knew about it. I stayed on the outskirts, just watching the people come and go, but once a pirate walked by and saw me." Emma closed her eyes for the next part, finishing dreamily, "He looked as if he might approach me for a moment, but then he just smiled, and it's so silly, Miranda, but when I looked into his eyes, I felt as if he owned me. There was power in those dark eyes of his, and I don't feel as if I control my actions now, because everything I do strains towards the day when we meet again."

"And how do you know that that day will come?" Miranda inquired politely, disgusted and yet thoroughly amused at the child's tale.

"Haven't you ever felt that there is something much greater than yourself just waiting for you to find it?" Emma replied breathlessly, hugging her pillow.

"Of course, but God has already found me," Miranda snapped automatically. Emma sighed, "No, beyond that; Something much more tangible and human."

"Oh. That." Miranda's voice was despondent and almost weary as she thought of Quentin's death; such a sudden loss of something so good and so wonderfully human. Emma looked up at her curiously, but restrained her tongue.

Thinking of Quentin set Miranda in a worse mood about discussing pirates. She noticed that Emma had rolled on her back and was staring dreamily at the ceiling, and Miranda's veins clenched in annoyance at this girl -so innocent and young- for being so ridiculous as to fall in a love with such a beastly creature.

"You silly girl," Miranda heard herself say in a voice so cold and hard that it shocked her. Emma looked sharply at her, her eyes widening in dual surprise.

"A pirate could never love you in return. They don't love, they don't care about anyone but themselves, and they certainly wouldn't waste their time on such a pure, foolish child like you." She stood and wrenched the door open, glancing back once to see Emma's eyes, once bright with hope and infatuation, now sparkle with tears of dejection and hurt.

Miranda stepped out of the room and slammed the door behind her. Her breath was ragged and she found her own eyes heating up with tears.

-------------------------

Miranda remained in her cramped quarters for the next few days. She didn't try looking for Emma, and neither, to her relief, did Emma seek out her.

On the third morning since the departure from Port Royal, Miranda woke with a jerk. Shouts rang out from above her, followed by heavy thuds and clangs. She threw on her dressing gown and hurried above deck, but as her bare foot touched on the last step fear frosted her heart at the sight to greet her.

Pirates raced hither and thither, wielding swords and hacking them through the air at anyone who opposed them. The British soldiers fought bravely, but their honor and training would not allow them to fight as the pirates did. Miranda knew it wouldn't be long before they were overwhelmed and cheated into a corner.

No one had noticed her presence yet. She slipped back down below, raced to Emma's room and began banging on the door.

"What?" Emma demanded sourly, tying her own dressing gown neatly at her waist with one hand and fisting something in her other.

"Pirates have attacked the ship. We need to-"

"Pirates?" The girl's voice trembled with excitement. Miranda almost screamed in frustration.

"We need to escape!" she cried, seizing Emma's thin arm and dragging her down the narrow hallway.

"No!" Emma shrieked, "I have to know if he's here!" She wrenched her way out of Miranda's grasp and ran up the stairs.

Time seemed to stop, and Miranda felt as if the next decision she made would affect how the rest of her life would be lived. She closed her eyes, praying for some sort of guidance, and then opened her eyes. Sighing, she ran up the stairs after Emma.

At the top of the steps a pair of thick hands wrapped around her arms, pinioning them to her sides. Hot breath puffed in her ear as a growling voice chuckled, "'Allo, poppet."

_No!_ Miranda's brain screamed. It was impossible, implausible that the second encounter with pirates she would have could be with the same as the ones before. She looked around, realizing she recognized several faces.

She saw Emma being restrained by a relatively young pirate. The girl's head was down, a look of abject horror carved on her face. Miranda followed her gaze and saw Captain Reginald lying supine on the deck, blood spreading from underneath him. His body was still.

Emma tore her eyes from the sight and met Miranda's. Tears streaked down the girl's cheeks and whatever she had been holding so tightly in her hand clattered to the ground. Her captor bent and snatched it up, and Emma turned to see his face.

Miranda gasped as she watched a look of betrayal and grief flash over Emma's face. Sounds of fighting rang out, but somehow she heard Emma's whisper from across the deck.

"It's you."

The pirate grinned, drawing his sword. The morning sun glinted off the metal, blinding Miranda momentarily, but she recovered in time to see Emma fall solidly to the ground in a crumpled, lifeless heap.

In one fluid movement Miranda slipped away from the man holding her. She streaked across the deck and lunged at the murderous pirate, pounding her fists upon him to try to make the most damage possible. Strong arms recaptured her, and the familiar gruff voice laughed, "This wench too much for you, Grapple?"

Emma's killer growled indignantly. " 'Course not, Pintel, but get da cap'tin- 'E'll be glad to see 'er."

"Aye," the man holding her, Pintel, agreed, and thrust her into the other pirate, Grapple's waiting grip. Miranda tripped over Emma's body as this transaction occurred, and nearly wretched in horror of the reality in progress. Something cold pressed against Miranda's arm as Grapple tightened his hold on her, and she realized that whatever he had snatched from the ground remained in his hand.

She struggled vainly for freedom, but Grapple only laughed at her feeble attempts. In a matter of minutes a familiar silhouette greeted her.

"Hello, Miss Farthin', it be a pleasure to see ye again."

"Barbossa," Miranda spat, glaring up at his malevolent face. "I demand you withdraw from this ship and leave the remaining crew in peace. You've destroyed enough as it."

The captain laughed, and exchanged glances with Grapple. "And I'm curious, Miss Farthin', just why should I be doin' that?"

Miranda had nothing to say to this response, and Barbossa chuckled heartily. "If ye don' have a bargainin' chip, my dear, there can be no . . . arrangement."

"Myself," Miranda said finally, choking on her words.

"Ye mus' think highly of yerself, if ye think that yer more valuable to my men than pillagin', lootin', and killin' is," Barbossa countered, cupping her chin in one of his calloused hands and forcing her face up to meet his.

"I won't pretend it's a fair offer," Miranda replied savagely, "but it's all I have to trade. Do we have a deal?"

"Aye, we do, Miss Farthin'," Barbossa hissed, and then looked up at Grapple. "Take her back to the Pearl and lock her in the brig. Did ye get it?" he added.

"'is da'er had it," Grapple slurred, nudging the child's body with his foot. Miranda jerked both her elbows into his stomach with rage. Both pirates laughed harshly and Grapple began dragging her to side of the deck. He gripped one of the ropes tied loosely to the rail with one hand, and wrapped his free arm around Miranda's waist. He pulled her up onto the railing and with one powerful jump, swung back aboard the pirate ship.

With a heavy thud they landed on deck of the other ship, the Pearl, as Barbossa had fondly called it. Miranda struggled with every step as Grapple yanked her down the steep, narrow stairs to a rather flooded brig. He threw her in a small iron cell and she fell to her hands and knees in cold seawater. The door slammed behind her, Grapple laughed once more, and thudded up the stairs.

Using the aid of the bars, Miranda heaved herself to her feet. She dropped her head down and noticed something on her bare arm. What had been clenched in Grapple's fist had been pressed against her skin, leaving a near-perfect indention of what had been carved on the surface of the object. A skull adorned with earrings met her eyes, and she gasped at the familiarity of the coin.

She rubbed her arm furiously, trying to rid herself of the beastly mark and collapsed to the flooded ground, softly weeping.

"Only good fer wailin' and whinin'. I knew it weren't a fair trade," a rough voice rasped through the air. Miranda scrambled into a corner and glared at her company. Barbossa snarled a twisted grin back at her, and advanced towards the bars.

"Welcome back, Miss Farthin'. I'd be lyin' to say I never hoped I'd see ye again."

"Let me guess; my sparkling personality wove magic into your heart?" Miranda spat, looking away.

"You flatter yerself too often," Barbossa laughed. "If ye promise to be good an' not run away, I might let ye out of this cell." The captain turned to walk away.

"I know what it is you want," Miranda found herself saying to his retreating back. Barbossa halted hesitantly, but didn't turn.

"Do ye, missy?" His voice was a rumbled hiss. His body had gone rigid.

"That gold; Emma had one, and _The Defiant_ had . . . had . . ." Miranda faltered, the full realization hitting her. "You bastard!" she shrieked, leaping to her feet and throwing herself at the bars.

"You killed Quentin! You killed that sweet cabin boy, Will, and the rest of the crew. You are a monster; a vile, loathsome beast of a-" But she stopped, for upon her words Barbossa had returned to the bars, slipped one hand through and seized the back of her head, forcing her to look up at him. The abruptness of the movement and sudden pain froze her voice and she looked up, horrified at him.

"Clever girl," Barbossa growled, bringing his face so close to hers she could feel his breath on her skin. "But ye judge too quickly."

"Judge someone for taking the lives of others?" Miranda argued weakly. "On the contrary, Captain, I didn't judge you soon enough."

What happened next Miranda could not quite comprehend; she only noticed the insignificant parts. The other hand that had slipped through the bars and wrapped around her waist had no motive but power and control. His mouth was cold and dry against her lips.

When he pulled away she stumbled backward, mind reeling still with the cruelness of her discovery and confused with what had just occurred.

"Good day, Miss Farthin'," Barbossa said, as if nothing had happened. He turned and disappeared up the stairs.

Miranda fell to the wet floor with a splash and drew her knees up to her chest. _This can't be real_, she though miserably, leaning her head against the bars. Nothing in her life felt as if it had been lived by her, but something more than that thought terrified her.

Uncertainty is a wicked beast. It wraps one's mind in doubt and turns the most sensible of people into frenzied panic and bafflement. It induces suspicion, hate, jealousy, and fear within moments of manifestation.

Something within Miranda had stirred when Barbossa's lips met hers. Something has sent a frozen wave of emotion rolling up her spine.

_You didn't enjoy it; the mere thought is revolting!_ She told herself. _He killed your brother and countless other innocent sailors. _Her hands were trembling.

_But how do you know?_ Another voice -that sounded suspiciously like a pirate's- asked slyly. _How do you know he killed your brother? He never agreed to your accusation._

"But he didn't deny it!"

Miranda was startled to hear her own voice as the words passed over her lips. _And now you're going crazy._

She closed her eyes, trying to think of some way to escape. She tried resting, reasoning that when she woke she would start planning what to do. But as hard as she tried, she kept finding herself reliving a certain moment, and remembering the way his hand had roved up and down her back and how his lips had felt against her skin.


	4. A Delightful Breed

Author's Note: Yeah. I'm a bad person. I know it's been forever since I've updated, but school and college stuff is . . . Erk. Not fun. Thanks for your patience, though, I love getting feedback (the fact that it's positive is just a bonus).

**Chapter Four**

The apple bounced down the stairs towards Miranda and rolled through the shallow water until rocking to a stop. Miranda lunged for it, her fingertips just barely brushed the smooth skin. The ship swayed, and the fruit rolled away from her grasp.

It had been two days since she'd eaten anything. Several more apples bounced solidly down the stairs but came nowhere near Miranda's reach. She heaved a groan, crushing her arm through the bars of the cell. Something small and wooden floated by her palm. She snatched it up and brought it to her face. A glazed, brown iris stared back at her and she shrieked in alarm.

The lanky pirate came tumbling down the stairs, clutching an empty crate. He chased after the apples floating lazily in the water and threw them carelessly into the box. After he rounded up all the loose fruit he continued splashing around as if searching for something.

"Looking for this?" Miranda asked sweetly, pinching the sphere between her index finger and thumb. Ragetti whirled around and landed heavily on the floor. His one eye landed on her and he cocked his head to one side.

"You're still 'ere?"

"Naturally, half-wit," she barked, "how would I escape?"

"Righ'," Ragetti agreed, nodding. "Righ'." He scrambled awkwardly to his feet and approached her. "Thanks for findin' it." He reached forward but Miranda snapped her hand closed around the eye.

"Give me an apple, and we'll call it fair."

Ragetti looked taken aback. "You shouldn't barter wif pirates, miss," he began. "It could lead ta' trouble."

"I'm locked in a cell in the middle of the ocean," Miranda pointed out. "Now give me an apple." The pirate turned this statement over in his mind. Hoping he was weakening, Miranda opened her fist and rolled the sphere between her fingers as temptingly as a wooden eye can be displayed.

Ragetti's hand snaked through the bars and bit the orb out of her hand. He laughed jovially as he squelched it into his empty socket. He grabbed the crate of apples, and leapt up the stairs and out of sight.

Miranda dropped her head against the bars and clutched her stomach.

"Well, well, well," a rough voice called. "It seems we neglected our charming captive fer too long."

Miranda snarled up at Barbossa, her heart beating faster as she snapped, "No need to sugar your words. I know you forgot me."

Barbossa laughed and advanced towards her. "I do love how ye cut straight to the truth, Miss Farthin'."

"Consider it my most memorable attribute," she rebuked, looking away.

"Don' take it so personally, my dear," Barbossa growled. "Ye must realize a pirate of my standin' has so much teh deal with there is simply not enough time in the day to account fer every soul-"

"I'm half-starved!" Miranda argued. "Surely you had one moment in your day to remember food for your prisoner."

"Oh, Miss Farthin'," Barbossa let out a low chuckle that froze her insides. "I hadn't yet mentioned my thoughts from the night."

"And you're not going to," Miranda responded, clenching her teeth. The smile did not flicker from the captain's face as he withdrew an apple from his pocket. He tossed it genially at her.

"You foul, accursed . . . pirate," she spat, catching the fruit and curling her fingers around it. "What a horrifying day it will be when you meet your despicable equal."

"And what a truly fantastical day it will be when ye meet a man tolerant of yer presence," Barbossa countered smoothly. "Enjoy yer apple, my dear. It is most certain I will forget about ye fer several more days, and who knows if Ragetti will stumble upon ye before ye become a bundle of bones and fine fabric."

"Don't settle for anything less than ten pounds for this dress when you sell it from my bones," Miranda hissed to his back as the pirate ascended the stairs. "I'd hate to think of good cloth going to waste."

She couldn't tell if it was a cough or a laugh that greeted her statement as the door slammed behind him.

-------------------------

Miranda woke feeling particularly discomforted. Something was wrong. She stood up and tried to discern why the world felt off and realized it was because everything was still. There was no gentle rocking, no tilt of the boards as the ship bobbed on the waves. She heard no footsteps overhead; all that greeted her ears was the sound of a lonely gull as it circled overhead.

Her legs felt wobbly as she tried to pace her cell. As she walked and accustomed herself to the sensation of not having he ground in constant motion, something stirred above her. Miranda froze, eyes fixed at the stairs. The door swung open and a little ball of fur propelled itself into the room, chattering and clanking something in its tiny fist.

Jack leapt onto the bars of her cell at head-height and stared at her. Miranda stared right back and then noticed the monkey was holding a ring of keys tightly with one foot.

"Hello there, sweetums," she cooed, "Where'd everybody go?"

The monkey chirped once, and never stopped staring at her. Miranda stepped forward towards the creature and continued, "Did those bad men leave my darling all alone? Oh, poor sweetums, don't worry, I'll take care of you."

Cautiously, she raised one hand up to the monkey and patted his head. Jack closed his eyes happily and she stroked his head and brought up her other hand towards the keys.

"Will you let me out, darling?" Miranda asked softly, rubbing the monkey's fur. Her other hand darted out and gripped the key ring. Jack's dark eyes snapped open, but he only chittered at her.

Wasting no more time with the creature, Miranda began trying all the keys in the lock as Jack began screeching in protest. Her fourth attempt proved successful and she shoved the door open. The monkey launched himself from the bars onto her back and yanked her hair angrily. Miranda paid no heed, and rushed up the stairs.

Once through the door, she was in the storage quarters of the ship. Weaving her way around barrels and sack, crates, and the occasional chicken, she located the spiral staircase. Up to the sleeping deck and onto the upper deck she flew, finally able to look at the blue sky above. Jack hung heavily from her hair and she finally wrestled him off. The monkey jumped to the railing and glared at her for a moment before disappearing into the rigging.

Miranda looked around and saw a tangled forest that turned into a white-sanded beach. The ocean, a flat and smooth horizon, looked inviting as it reached the wispy clouds.

The ground was not too far from the deck, Miranda reasoned. She jumped over the railing and landed heavily in the wet sand. She scrambled to her feet and ran for the shelter of the forest.

She didn't know where she was going; she didn't know what she expected to find, but getting away from the _Black Pearl_ was her main priority. She plunged herself into the dark green light of the jungle and didn't stop running until she could hardly draw breath.

Sitting heavily on a mossy log, Miranda looked at her surroundings. Thick vines hung like tentacles from branches; the trees themselves were massive, their trunks pleated like a skirt as their roots wrapped around each other. Enormous leaves blotted out the sun and twisted the golden light into an emerald hue. As lush as the jungle was, however, Miranda heard no birds singing, no animals calling to their mate, no rustle as creatures scurried through the brush. What she thought had been the drumming of her heart changed rhythm and she realized somewhere on this island a massive drum was being beaten. The thought frightened and overcame her. She jumped to her feet and started running again, but no matter which way she ran, the drumming only got louder.

Branches whipped her face as she ran blindly on. In her ears she could hear only her heart and the drums as they beat a dissonant rhythm of horror.

She connected with something solid and flew off her feet and onto her back. Her brain registered a very human "Whoah!" as she tried to regain her breath. Coughing and gasping, she sat up with great effort and looked over to see the form of a man lying on his back, his chest heaving. In seconds he jumped to his feet and pulled out a tree branch, waving it wildly at her face.

"Who are you?" He asked, his eyes wide and glinting with a light of perhaps mania. He certainly looked like a madman. On the bridge of his nose was painted a blood-red beetle, and a set of black wings stretched under his eyes to his temples. Antennae ending with large eyes dominated his forehead, but it wasn't just the face paint that suggested his madness. Dark long hair, matted from dreadlocks and neglect escaped from under a dirty maroon rag tied around his head. His balloon-like tunic hung stained and unbuttoned to his waist. His tattered dark pants reached mid-calf, and he was barefoot.

"Not a threat," Miranda replied, finding her voice finally.

"Why are you running towards them, then?" the man persisted, still holding the branch to her face. "You're too dressed to be a spy. Why are you here?"

"I was trying to run away from-" Miranda responded, inching away from the stick.

"Ah, but you were running towards them," the man interrupted. "You're not making any sense at all, love."

Miranda gave up and asked simply, "Who are you?"

"Captain Jack Sparrow at your service, miss." As he bowed his branch swished dangerously close to her cheek. She dodged it and climbed to her feet.

"Why were you running?" Miranda asked, realizing this man had no problem answering question.

His wide eyes got a little wider. "Right!" he exclaimed, sheathing his tree branch. Without another word he sprinted passed her. Miranda whirled around to watch his retreating back.

"Wait!" she called. He paid no heed. Confused but intrigued, she raced after him back the way she'd come. His run was high-kneed and terribly inefficient. Within seconds Miranda had caught up to him. "What are they like?" she shouted through gasps.

"Hungry!" Jack yelped in reply, kicking his feet up higher as he ran. He veered to the right and started running serpentine. Miranda pursued, now too amused to be anything close to afraid or apprehensive.

Her mood was cut short as she saw Jack trip on something, and flip forward. As she neared him she heard an ominous creak and then before she could think a large, coarse net had swallowed them both and shot up in the air.

The ground sank beneath them as the net swung up higher, finally coming to a stop and swinging gently something like fifty feet from the ground.

"Oh, bullocks." Jack heaved a sigh and pressed his face against the rope. Miranda tried vainly to untangle her legs from his, but gravity and closeness proved it quite impossible.

"Don't worry about maidenly form, love," Jack commented, "I've grown accustomed to the effect I have on women."

Miranda snorted, and gave one final attempt to free her leg from between his. Jack struggled momentarily against the netting, but also accepted defeat at his endeavors.

"What's going to happen to us?" Miranda asked quietly.

"Us?" Jack repeated. "You'll eaten first, I imagine, and by the time you're done distracting them, I will have been able to escape."

"How vile of you," Miranda rebuked half-heartedly. She wondered how grandiose his gesture would have been as he replied simply, "Pirate," if his hand hadn't been wrapped so tightly in the rope.

"How is it that my luck brings me only to pirates?" Miranda thought aloud.

Jack flailed for a moment to face her, and a grin twisted half his face. "Don't know what you're complaining about, miss. We are a delightful breed."

Miranda didn't bother dignifying that answer with a response. Instead, she turned away and searched for signs of life to appeal to down below.

"It's just us until they arrive," Jack stated, reading her thoughts. He no longer sounded wary of the people as he had when she first met him.

_Probably because he intends to use me as a distraction_, Miranda thought glumly. The sound of the drums had stopped, and in the distance she heard unorganized shouting and trilling.

"Here they come," Jack narrated, and Miranda felt the urge to smack him.


	5. Ace in the Hole

**Chapter Five**

Barbossa ignored the comments and complaints of his crew as they scuffled into the dense jungle. His mind was far too preoccupied with musings that had been turned over hundreds and hundreds of times before in his head. If nothing else, the curse had given him the gift of time.

The curse. A sneer curled the captain's lip as he recalled pleasures that had been once a simple part of life, yet now dominated his every thought. Food, rum, flesh. Even the small feeling of contentment one experiences when a soft breeze coasts across the skin. Every sensation was now a memory, and there was the rub: Barbossa could handle the curse if he'd been unable to remember the joys of mortality. As it was, he could remember every sensation he'd ever enjoyed, which only made him desire each one even more.

He slipped his hand into one of his coat's capacious pockets and withdrew the green apple he made sure was always there. Every morning he replaced the previous day's apple with a newer, fresher one, just in case that day was the day the curse was lifted. Something stirred in his mind as he looked meaningfully at the fruit, and an idea began to blossom.

The girl might serve some purpose after all, he thought, entertaining his new idea. Just as the apple was his instant gratification and affirmation of the curse being cancelled, so could the girl be. Locked up in the cell, Barbossa could keep her for an indefinite time purely as a reminder and motivation to break the curse. Once broken, he would have his ace in the hole. Pun intended.

Drums beat in the distance, and Barbossa smiled. He knew the natives of this particular island were scavengers and lovers of shiny objects. He had no proof but was almost certain one or more of the coins would be in the village, and then he would be that much closer to the mortal joys he'd been denied.

Miranda had always thought that the worst position in which a young woman could find herself would be a situation that jeopardized her dignity and reputation. That, however, was before she'd been hog-tied to a pole by natives and carried upside down through jungle underbrush.

To add insult to injury, Jack had talked his way out of being tied in any way, and was leading the group, pausing every so often to look back at Miranda and laugh.

"Jack! Have them let me go," Miranda said through gritted teeth. Jack's laughter sounded like barking as he mimicked, "Jakhaf them letmigoh!" The natives joined in laughing, and Jack added, "No speaky se-se. Just gabble babble."

Although clearly in another language, Miranda had a good idea of what he'd said. And she wasn't happy.

"Jack, let me go. Now."

"Or?" countered a delighted Jack. Miranda had about as much wit in her reply as she had leverage. "Please?"

Jack stopped walking to let the people carrying her catch up to him, and he stooped to her level, and managed to keep pace.

"Sorry, love. It's me or no one, and since I have to choose . . . " he stopped, his eyebrows furrowed, causing the painted antennae on his forehead to merge. After a moment's thought, he pointed his finger to the sky but gestured to Miranda. "Me. Definitely me."

"Bloody pirate," she growled through her teeth, closing her eyes as she tried to think of a plan, but her mind was drawing a blank. As she was despairing, one clumsy native spared her further depression as his grip slipped on the pole to which she was tied and her head connected solidly with a large root. The world went black.

Searing heat woke Miranda as it shot up her spine. She immediately opened her eyes and saw twilight above her. The heat persisted, and she realized she was hung like a stuck pig over a bonfire. She was dressed only in her under garments, which were beginning singe and smoke.

Islanders danced around the fire pit, and she passively noticed one was wearing her dress. Somewhere a drum that had been beating wildly ceased, and she heard a familiar voice.

"Ra-ta ummy sapey want! Pai go burny-burny, good!" And there was Jack, seated comfortably on a a throne, calmly ordering the people to eat her. Through her abject fear, Miranda felt fury burning her insides as the fire burned her skin.

"Save me!" she screamed, smelling burning hair. Jack opened his mouth but froze. His eyes darted around and he held up a hand. The dancing stopped and all was silent. Miranda writhed against the pole trying to avoid the licking flames as she watched in amazement as Jack jumped from his throne.

" 'Bye!" he shouted, and ran his high-kneed run out of the clearing. The islanders stood listlessly, unsure how to react to the hasty departure. Luckily, they were given something new to react to in seconds as a wave of pirates flooded over them. The pirates immediately began cutting them down with their swords. One native was cast into the fire, and fell heavily against one of the poles holding Miranda up. Her legs fell into the fire, and flames curled hungrily onto the rope, blinding her with pain. A scream ripped out of Miranda's throat as her mind was wiped clean of everything except pain. She'd never known what burning flesh smelled like, and quite frankly, could have gone the rest of her life in ignorance. However, now she knew, and the scent nearly made her vomit.

An arm wrapped around her and yanked her from the flames. The dirt smothered the fire on her skirts, but her legs still felt as if they were being devoured by flames. Tears streamed from her eyes as she tried to think of anything but the pain.

After several excruciating minutes the air was still. No more natives were shouting or pleading. There were none left. Miranda vaguely felt someone untying her wrists and saying, "Keep gettin' in the wrong sorts, don' we, darling?"

Beyond the pain, Miranda found herself thinking, _not him_.


	6. Passion Becomes You

**Chapter Six**

"Ye keep runnin', but I just keep findin' ye."

Miranda looked up from from her cell at Barbossa, standing at the top of the steps. Her escape had been in vain, for she was back in the same cell she'd been locked in less than twenty-four hours prior.

"I can't run anymore," she confessed through gritted teeth. The truth stung sharply in her heart. The _Pearl _had once again set sail, but even if it were still aground, her legs were in far too much pain to move, let alone walk. She'd bound the burns tightly with the majority of her underskirt; a sight Barbossa didn't let go to waste.

"I must say the view is considerable improvement." He descended the stairs but did not advance farther.

"Go to hell." The words sounded harsh on Miranda's tongue. She'd never sworn before. Barbossa laughed.

"Miss Farthin', I'm already there, but I appreciate ye comin' out of yer shell fer me like that," he assured her, taking a few steps closer.

Miranda curled up tighter in the corner. Part of her wanted to replay her previous encounter with the captain, but the rest of her (the reasonable side) did not want to tempt disaster. It seemed to be doing a decent job without her provocation.

Barbossa unhooked a loop of keys from his belt and unlocked her cell door. He swung it open and looked hard at her. Seconds passed, and Miranda couldn't find the courage to stand and face the pain in her legs.

"Ye really can't walk, can ye?" Barbossa commented rhetorically

"Why did you save me?" Miranda asked suddenly, taking her mind off certain thoughts a lady wouldn't entertain. A growling laugh slipped from Barbossa's throat, setting Miranda at definite unease.

"Yer my green apple, Miss Farthin'. Good day." He turned to the stairs, but Miranda--thoroughly confused but not yet ready to end the interview--called, "Did you have any luck?"

"Beg pardon?"

"You killed all those people-"

"People!" Barbossa laughed. "People don't eat people, missy. Kill, rob, rape, destroy: yes. But why be ye so keen on them? They were minutes from havin' ye with a side of cantalope."

"You didn't kill them for me," Miranda stated.

"Maybe I did?"

"No. You didn't."

Barbossa smiled in amusement. "Yer right. I didn't. But our killin' weren't fer naught, don't ye worry."

"How many did you find?" Miranda repeated her question. Barbossa withdrew a coin purse from his pocket and glanced in.

"Five."

"May I-"

"No. Tis nothin' personal, my dear. I simply don't trust ye."

"I have a question for you." Miranda carefully watched Barbossa and he slipped the coin purse back into his pocket and approach her.

"I am a busy man, Miss Farthin'. Make it quick."

"When you collect enough of those coins, will they buy you enough to justify murder? Will it be worth the ships you sank, the towns you burned, the families you destroyed, and the people you killed?"

Barbossa's eyes roved up and down Miranda's body, and he smiled. "Aye. Ye forget we be but humble pirates. No morales and instant gratification motivates us. If killin' was in order to get a nicer bed, I'd not hesitate a moment."

A sudden image of Quentin blinded Miranda's eyes. His life was sacrificed for what? For an anonymous pirate to afford one more harlot? Righteous fury coursed through her veins, and she jumped to her feet without thinking.

"You!" she screamed in hatred. Her scream was swiftly followed by a second as the pain in her legs wracked her body. Her hands, which had been flung forward aimed at the captain's throat, now clawed for support. She fell heavily against Barbossa, who stumbled back in surprise from both her reaction and the sudden force of her collapse.

Her arms wrapped around Barbossa's neck, Miranda began sobbing from physical pain and mental anguish. The pirate recovered quickly, disentangling her arms from him, and he caught her fall with one hand wrapped around her neck. Miranda's sobs became chokes as he propelled her back into the cell and slammed her body against the wall.

His face inches from hers, he cocked his head to the side and smirked. "Miss Farthin'," he began quietly, "passion becomes ye." His grip had loosened considerably, and Miranda's toes touched the sopping wooden floor. She leaned against the angled wall and drew one hand up to Barbossa's neck. With a strength she didn't know she still possessed, she pulled his head towards her and closed the final inches between his lips and hers.

His participation in the kiss was immediate, but Miranda took her time. She traced her tongue over his lips but coyly shut her mouth the first few times his tried to follow. After several minutes of teasing she finally parted her lips and let his tongue explore the interior of her mouth. His hands deftly skimmed her body, pausing here and there to rest before continuing on, and she let her hand rest on his belt, finding the object for which she'd been looking.

Hardening her resolve, she leapt into action. She bit his lip. Hard. She then jerked her body to the side and slammed Barbossa's head into the wall while leaping towards the opened door of the cell. Bolts of pain shot through her legs as she moved, but she had no time to react. To her surprise, the pirate collected himself faster than any other man could have done, and was at the door before she'd managed to lock it shut. Hitting it open again, he struck Miranda broadside of the head and she crumpled to the floor.

"Tis no use seducin' a cursed man, missy," he chided, grabbing her by one arm and throwing her effortlessly back into the cell.

"Ne'ertheless," he continued, grinding the key in the lock to emphasize her captivity, "yer actions won't be forgotten."


	7. Almost Human

**Chapter Seven**

The waxy green apple sat directly in front of him. The waves rocked the _Pearl_, but Barbossa held the fruit in one hand. There were coins to recount and a crew the captain, but he couldn't remove the image the girl from his mind.

For the first time, Barbossa had almost been tricked. Had been uncursed, he'd probably find himself still locked in the brig, and _that _was unacceptable. Something about that girl had shaken him, but he didn't know what. He had been with his fair share of women (harlots and harbor sluts, mainly), but even as one susceptible to and widely aware of the pleasures of the flesh, Barbossa had never experienced . . . whatever it was caused by the girl's touch. He could sense something on her lips, but he couldn't feel it. He recalled the other women: Sonya, Giselle, Marie, Pamela (to name a few). Barbossa always assumed he'd be drawn the most towards women like himself. Black-hearted, selfish, bitter, and unbreakable.

This girl was none. She seemed in constant pain and sorrow, yet hopeful and pure. The combination almost made Barbossa shudder. Such females were only girls. Too soft, too idealistic for the real world. They dealt with a higher notion of justice--one that, when it betrayed them, would harden them into the kind of women Barbossa would heartily welcome to his bed.

And yet--

something in the girl's kiss had nearly ruined him. It was not the kiss of a girl who'd recently grown into her mother's dress, but that of a temptress . . . wanton and heated. She played a cheap trick on him; one that could have lost him his ship.

She had begun a dirty game with no rules.

She had begun to think like a pirate.

/\

Miranda felt filthy. Maiden modesty had bothered her before Captain Barbossa's visit, but now every inch of exposed skin burned in shame. Her dress had been reduced to a raggedly short underskirt and a bodice never meant to be seen by anyone but the wearer.

The difference between the time before Barbossa visited her and the present was that before, Miranda had some dignity left. Now she was stripped, both literally and figuratively, and all she felt was shame.

Beyond the shame of breaking a social indecency, Miranda struggled with a deeper law--that of morality and principle. She had tried to seduce a man, and that was not something a proper Englishwoman was allowed to do. Moreover, she had tried --and failed (mustn't forget that she abandoned her dignity for a low-down trick that hadn't even worked)--to seduce the man who killed her brother and countless other innocent men.

_And she had enjoyed it_. There was the rub. There was the most damning part of the equation. She had enjoyed using her sexuality to try to overpower a man. She had enjoyed Barbossa's kiss. He was a rotten hull of a man--dangerous, unfeeling, yet . . . something more. Something beyond his cruel actions and rough words had been on his lips. Something almost . . . human.

Moonlight spilled softly through the scarred hull and into Miranda's cell, and, despite her troubled mind and livid pain in her legs, she fell asleep.

When she awoke, she found herself in a bed. This was startling enough, but as Miranda shot up and looked around in confusion, she found Barbossa sitting calmly by a blackened window, a green apple held loosely in his hand. His eyes were fixed on her.

"Why am I-" Miranda began, but Barbossa cut her off.

"With ye bein' incapacitated an' all, I thought ye might get more use from my bed than I would."

"That's . . . I . . . Thank you," she finished weakly, too surprised by his moment of kindness to say anything else. She glanced down and remembered how indecent her underclothes were and quickly yanked the covers up to her neck. Barbossa's growling laughter met her ears.

"No need for that, Miss Farthin'. Ye got nothin' to be ashamed of."

"Be that true or false," Miranda began hotly, feeling her cheeks flush, "I have a sense of decency and I _won't_-"

"Do ye now?" Barbossa challenged, standing up and discarding the apple to the floor. "Then who be that fiery little wench did try an' seduce me yesterday?"

"Haven't the slightest," she snapped, feeling her face redden even more. "She certainly isn't in this room now."

"If'n she were, I'd be a right lucky man." Barbossa turned and gazed out the window.

"I hate to disappoint you, but she won't be coming back." Miranda's words were quavered and weak.

"Don' be so sure, missy. The sea changes everyone. She brings out the best, she exposes the worst, but above all-" Barbossa turned again to face Miranda. "-she shows ye who ye truly are."

"And who are you, Captain?" Miranda found herself asking. A deep, rough laugh trickled from the man's mouth as he approached her again.

His lips brushed Miranda's temple as he whispered, "_Yer nightmare, _Miss Farthin'."


	8. Business

**Chapter Eight**

A nightmare was exactly what Barbossa was in Miranda's mind. Horrifying, confusing, but wholly mesmerizing. Miranda closed her eyes, wishing the image of the pirate away, but the memories lingered. She could still feet his breath on her cheek, still feel the roughness of his voice in her soul.

Miranda stood up from the bed, allowing the pain of her burns to wipe her mind clean. She stood very still, tears stinging hotly in her eyes as she fought back the bile rising in her throat.

The pain was incredible; it was almost as intense as when she had been first burned, but as she stood there, forcing herself to ignore the stinging agony shooting up her legs, a calm fell over her. She took a step forward. And then another. She let one hand steady herself against the wall as she took deep breaths, willing herself to endure the pain. She reached the chair in which Barbossa had sat, and collapsed finally. She looked out the smoky window to where the clear blue of the ocean met the eggshell pale of the afternoon sky, and Miranda realized it had been a long time since she had seen something lovely. She let the beauty envelop her as the pain ebbed from her mind as she was able to think clearly.

And then _he_ returned to her subconscious. Miranda jerked and stood up suddenly, all the pain rushing back up her spine and rippling over her body. She bit back a scream as she screwed her eyes shut, letting the white agony blind her world. No Barbossa, no feelings, no self. Only blissful pain that stole reality from her mind.

The pain lessened, and Miranda realized she was now on the floor. She didn't remember falling.

His face began to creep back into her thoughts, and she scrambled to her feet. Gone again. She steadied herself on the chair, and closed her eyes, letting the pain take her.

From above deck a piercing scream met the captain's ears. Ragetti, who had been lovingly polishing his wooden eye, paused from his work and cocked his head inquisitively like a dog.

"'oo'd you let 'ave 'er?" He asked curiously, looking up at Barbossa.

"No one," he growled in reply. "Mind the wheel."

Ragetti popped the eye back into its socket and eagerly jumped to his feet. Barbossa brushed passed him thoughtlessly and thundered down to his cabin. Miranda had been _his_, but of course getting the crew to respect his property had always been an issue; taking her from the brig had been a bad idea. The girl was no doubt a virgin. At least, she had been when he visited her earlier that morning. Who knew what she'd be when he arrived? Barbossa snarled. The prospect of deflowering a pretty girl (_his_ job) must have been too tempting to one of his men. Needless to say, someone would be flogged that evening. The girl's screaming continued.

Barbossa flung open the door to his cabin, ready to deliver punishment to the man who'd spoiled his fun, but a wholly different sight met his eyes.

The girl stood by the window, one hand braced against the wall while the other grasped the arm of the chair. Her head was throne back as a shriek poured from her mouth. Pain contorted her face as she stood perfectly still, and Barbossa was thoroughly perplexed.

He crossed the room in three long strides and scooped the girl into his arms, clamping her mouth shut with one hand. She froze instantly, and her eyes flew open. Her breathing was ragged, and her face was whiter than the crest of a wave, but she gasped, "What are you doing?"

"Miss Farthin', I believe I have more of a right to that question than ye do, as I'm not the one wailin' and screamin' for no 'pparent reason." Barbossa snapped, dropping her unceremoniously back onto the bed. She winced, but then furrowed her brows. "I was screaming?"

"Like a gull, missy. Mind tellin' me why?"

The girl's face reddened, and she mumbled shamefully, "I was using pain to take my mind off . . . things."

"Generally 'tis the other way 'round," Barbossa pointed out drily. The girl nodded, her face now an even deeper shade.

"I have . . . that is . . . things to deal with," she stammered, turning her face away from the captain.

"Ye'll not be screamin' again unless I allow it," Barbossa ordered. "It distracts the crew. Now shut up an' deal with yer issues like a civilized person."

"You're one to talk," the girl countered seemlessly, then bit her lip as she realized what she'd said.

Barbossa's lips twisted into a snarl again. "Miss Farthin'," he began, his words sharp and short. "Either ye act like the lady ye say ye are, or ye embrace the pirate ye've been actin' like."

Like a cat, the girl rose up and struck Barbossa on the side of his face, her nails grazing his cheek. Beads of blood sprung out of his skin, and he smiled.

"Very lady-like."

"How dare you compare me to a pirate--to someone like _you_," the girl spat.

"Ay, the fiery strumpet has returned," Barbossa laughed heartily, glancing at the clock on the wall. "I believe it's time for ye to kiss me."

The girl glared at him, her breast rising and falling heavily as she fought her anger.

"Go to hell." The words seemed to slide more easily off her tongue this time than they had the last. Her eyes burned fiercely, and not even Barbossa's iron stare in return could shake her. At last he smiled wickedly.

"How many times must I be tellin' ye, Miss Farthin'? _I'm already there_."

/\

"Man! . . . Woman! overboard!"

The excited cry roused the crew from their evening routine, and they scurried to the starboard side of the ship.

"Reckon she's dead?"

"Nah, I can see 'er breafin'!"

"'oo's gonna get 'er?"

"I want her first!"

"Shut up, da cap'tin'll decide wha' we do wif 'er."

As the crew discussed this new turn of events one pirate hauled the body up onto the deck.

"Floatin' on a piece o' shipwreck, I 'magine," he deduced, dropping the woman solidly and carelessly on the deck.

"Step aside," Barbossa commanded, joining the group to get a closer look. The woman looked to be in her mid-thirties, red matted hair, fair skin, once-expensive dress now ruined by the wear of the sea and God knows what else. Despite the claim of one pirate, she was not breathing.

Barbossa kicked her side with his hard-toed boot, and instantly the woman started choking and spluttering. The men stood still around her, waiting curiously to see if she'd recover or drown from the water still in her lungs.

"Eight shillin's she makes it!" one cried excitedly, and quickly the other men joined in on the betting. Barbossa remained silent, watching the woman writhe on the deck as she wretched up sea water and gasped for breath at the same time. She rolled onto her side and curled up in the fetal position, her sides heaving and her head ducking up and down as her instincts struggled for survival.

After minutes of this, she lay still. Cheerful demands for money rang in the air as disgruntled crewmen dug in their pockets for the agreed amount.

Suddenly the woman twitched, and the men fell silent. She twitched again, and then sat up alarmingly fast. Her eyes were wide, revealing pale gray irises and dilated pupils. She looked around wildly at the men staring at her, and rose shakily to her feet.

"Welcome aboard _The Pearl_, miss," Barbossa greeted her stiffly.

"You were ready to watch me die?" Her voice was low and incredulously furious. The betting and collecting of money hushed as the men looked warily at the woman.

"We be but ignorant pirates, milady," Barbossa growled. "Ye mean nothin' to us."

"Oh, I can change that," the woman countered smoothly, stepping towards him.

"I've seen ye before, haven' I?" He asked airily. The woman shrugged.

"Perhaps. Tortuga, Shipwreck Cove, No Man's Island. I've been around."

"What brings ye to this here part of the sea?"

"I was on business-" many of the crewmen tittered at this, but the woman ignored them. "-but the ship caught on an outcropping of coral. Crew scattered with the waves. Now I'm here."

"And what be yer name, milady?"

"Erin. But the men call me Ruby."

Barbossa turned and headed for his personal dining room. "Come with me, then, Ruby."

Smirking, the woman shadowed the captain into the room, but Barbossa quickly caught her off-guard with his words.

"Me an' the crew won' be needin' yer services."

"Are you sure, then?" Ruby raised an eyebrow in challenge. "I'm sure some of your men would beg to differ. And I have very accommodating group rates."

Barbossa chuckled. "We already have a girl for our pleasure. And she don' charge a thing."

"A _girl_?" Ruby scoffed. "What you need is a woman. First one's free, by the way."

"We'll take ye to port when we land," he said.

"And how soon will that be?" Ruby crossed her arms sullenly.

"Couldn't tell ye."

"Captain, I can't afford to have _my _time wasted by _your_ aimless sailing."

Barbossa glanced out the window. The sun was setting.

"When do ye imagine ye'll die, Miss Ruby?"

"When I say I'm ready to," Ruby snapped.

"Better ready yeself or change that attitude. I won' have it on my ship." Ruby opened her mouth to argue but Barbossa waved her away. "Go down to my sleeping quarters. I imagine ye know quite well the anatomy of a ship. I'll speak more with ye later."

/\

"You _are_ just a girl, aren't you?" Miranda looked up from the chair in which she'd been sitting, startled.

"Who are you?"

"Erin. But the men call me Ruby." The woman stepped into the room and shut the door. She looked at Miranda expectantly.

"I'm Miranda, Erin. What brings you here?"

"Shipwreck. Business. Does it matter? You're stealing my business." The woman sat down heavily on the bed and stared hard at Miranda, who was thoroughly confused.

"Your . . . business?"

"Sweetheart, I'm a whore. A damn good one, too. But as it is, the freebies you give out are losing me money. You gotta sell yourself, deary, or it's a waste of time."

"I am _not_ a whore," Miranda snapped coldly, but Erin looked unfazed.

"Clearly. You don't sell it, do you?"

"I don't _sell_ anything. Or give anything away."

"Still waiting for the right one? I was, too. Until I realized the right one was any one who had money." Erin's sympathy was pure, unfiltered sarcasm.

Miranda refused to reply and turned her face back to the window. Erin's voice softened as she said, "So if you haven't been giving the crew a good time, why would the captain say you were?"

"To discourage you, maybe?" Miranda shot back, still looking out the window. Erin thought this over. Finally, she asked, "What's your name?"

Miranda told her, and Erin said no more.

The two sat in silence for some time; Miranda had no desire to speak with the vile woman, and it seemed the vile woman found no need to speak. Or leave. Which was what Miranda kept mentally willing her to do.

The door burst open, and Barbossa strode in. "Ruby." He pointed at Erin. "Do what ye will. Ye'll be paid by each crewmen individually, but I'll have no part in it."

Erin smirked. "Are you sure, _captain?" _Her mood had instantly changed. She sashayed her way up to him, and continued, "You may be hell to look at, but money's money, and I aim to please."

Barbossa leaned closer to her, and she reflected his movement. "Go," he barked, making her jump back a pace, and she stormed out the door without another word.

Miranda looked carefully at Barbossa, and he stared expressionlessly back.

"Why is-" Miranda began, but he turned on his heel and left, slamming the door hard in his wake.


	9. Death Sentence in Golden Form

_**Warning: **_

_Due to the introduction of a "vile woman" into the story, this chapter is a little more mature. While I won't be graphic, there will be certain implications not suitable for younger readers. Thanks, and enjoy!_

**Chapter Nine**

Ruby was insulted, confused, and exhausted.

She was good at what she did. She'd been doing it since she was fifteen, and now, more than double that age, she had quite the experience under her belt. She knew what she was doing in every situation, knew where every little lick or touch would lead, and she'd never failed to give a man a decent time.

Until now.

This was the most flaccid crew of sailors she'd ever encountered. Eight men in one night, and not a rise out of any of them. They had stood (or laid) there, taking in all her endeavors with smiles on their faces, but all they did was watch. It was almost as if they enjoyed the viewing more than the sensations.

Ruby gritted her teeth angrily. She knew it couldn't (simply _couldn't!_) reflect her skills. It had to be them. All eight of them. She clenched her purse; they had paid well, and she had no good reason to complain about her treatment. It was just so . . . embarrassing.

She leaned over the rail of the deck. Stars reflected by the water cast a cold glow over the sea, and Ruby wondered why there were no men on deck working or . . . offering her patronage. She swallowed and grimaced. One of her clients had given her a more unusual experience than the others. She had been below deck, where very little moonlight could reach, but as she had been performing on him, a bitter, foreign taste dominated her mouth, almost like that of decay. She had remembered snapping her eyes open at that and seeing the small patch of moonlight slip off the man's body. The taste had immediately lessened, but she could still taste hints of it now and then.

Remembering food that had been amply supplied on the table of the captain's office, Ruby made her way across the deck and slipped into the little room. Picking up a cluster of grapes from a bowl, she popped one in her mouth and looked around. In the darkest corner of the room she spied a large wooden crate. Always on the lookout for more money, she approached it and opened the lid.

The crate was half full of large, golden coins, each bearing the same skull bordered with ancient designs. They seemed to produce their own shimmer of light, and Ruby smiled. She grabbed a handful and shoved it in her purse. She daren't take more--someone might catch her. Satisfied, she closed the crate, finished off her grapes, and slipped from the room.

/\

Something stirred Miranda from her sleep. She sat up, looking around the dark room. Clear, perfect moonlight shone through the window, and abovedeck she heard a commotion.

Had it been a scream that woke her? Thinking hard, Miranda realized she had heard the end of a woman's scream. She swung her legs off the bed and stood. Shooting pain greeted the base of her skull, but she refused to let herself dwell on it; she had to investigate.

Wincing with every step, she ascended the short flight of steps and cautiously opened the door onto the deck. Bathed in moon and starlight, the small crowd of crewmen looked changed, somehow. Slighter, and more ragged. Miranda stepped gingerly out the door and closed it softly behind her. She stayed by the wall, holding it for support and drew nearer to the four men. They sounded furious about something. As she advanced on them, she realized why they looked smaller.

They were skeletons.

To be more accurate, they were rotting. Some were merely bones, some still had pieces of flesh hanging to larger portions of bone, and all their clothes were ragged and shreds.

_. . . the records recovered ramble on about a ship of cursed pirates that become rotting corpses in the moonlight . . . He wrote that they turned to skeletal corpses when the moonlight touched them . . ._

The voices of Commodore Dunlop and the general bearing the news of Quentin's death echoed in Miranda's mind as she stood frozen in terror. When Barbossa alluded to the idea that he was cursed, she had assumed he was being figurative or exaggerating an unfortunate situation or memory. Now that she knew he'd been one hundred percent literal, she wished she'd been the one in the right.

In the midst of her fear she saw flashes of Erin surrounded by the men. Her mouth was twisted in horror and her eyes were so round even from a distance Miranda could see the whites all around her pale irises.

It took all Miranda's control to not mimic Erin with a scream; she bit her thumb and watched the scene unfold, mesmerized with terror.

"Tryin' ta steal from us, missy?" one pirate accused furiously.

"Didn' think we'd no'ice a few gol' pieces missin'?" another demanded.

"No! I didn't . . . I wouldn't" Erin scrambled for words, her voice screechy and strained with panic.

"Looks like ya did, though!" the first countered, yanking something from her hand and casting it to the ground. The purse spilled its contents and sent gold coins rolling across the deck. Miranda snatched one up and grimly recognized it as one of the medallions stamped with a skull. A death sentence in golden form.

"Put 'er in da brig!"

Miranda watched, petrified, as the men hauled Erin's kicking, protesting form down below.

"So ye've come to know our little secret," a gruff voice started beside her. Miranda whirled around to see Barbossa, swathed in the same shadow in which she hid.

"Wha . . . why . . . ?" Like Miranda, it seemed her words were too frightened to move from her thoughts to her mouth.

Barbossa snarled a smile and stepped out of the shadows. Moonlight ate away parts of his face and limbs, ripped his clothing, and rotted his scraggled and matted beard.

"I told ye we be cursed men, Miss Farthin'," he began bitterly, holding a decayed hand to her face. What skin was left was cold and clammy, and she closed her eyes, turning her face away as his fingers twined though her hair and curled around her jawline. Very abruptly, he forced her face back to look at him.

"Do ye find me repulsive? Is it unpleasant to look at me?"

Miranda looked at the ground and bit back a whimper. She tried lifting her gaze to the captain's face, but she found herself reverting back to the deck.

"Look at me!" he roared, tightening his grip on her neck and hurling her against the rail of the ship. His other hand snaked around her head and clawed at her hair, holding her head back at a painful angle.

Miranda felt her heart beating hard against her ribs, and her short ragged gasps were making her dizzy, but she looked fearfully up at his face pocked with holes that showed muscle or bone beneath. Both eyes were devoid of eyelids, and his hard gaze back at her came from decomposing eyes in deep, dark sockets. Miranda found her horror slipping away like Barbossa's humanity in the moonlight. Her breathing calmed, and she felt her heartbeat slow to normal.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, bringing up a hand to his face. She gently touched his rotting cheek with the palm of her hand, and with the other hand, she steadied herself against the rail. She felt Barbossa's grip on her hair lessen as his face changed from fury to an unreadable emotion. He did nothing but stand before her, loosely gripping the back of her neck and watching her closely.

"Miss Farthin'," he began softly, dangerously. "I won' be needin' any of yer pity." His grip tightened on her neck and he shoved her roughly to the ground. Without another word he stormed away, but Miranda watched him go and called, "Wait!"

The ragged, rotting figure halted, but did nothing further to acknowledge her.

"What must be done?" she asked, climbing to her feet. Barbossa turned around, still silent.

"What must be done to undo the curse?" Miranda persisted, taking a few hesitant steps towards him. Barbossa stooped and picked up something from the ground. Gold shone in his fingers as he twiddled the coin.

"882 pieces of cursed Aztec gold we must recover. We found it, spent it, and then it spent us. We can' feel. We be thirsty, but no drink will quench; starvin', but no food can fill; weary, but no rest can help; we lust, but no action can sate. Cursed, Miss Farthin'. Each day a nightmare, each night a horror. I can' feel the wind on my skin nor the warmth of a woman's touch."

"How . . . how many coins do you have?" Miranda stammered, steadying herself against the rail again.

"539."

"I want to help," she offered.

"Help?" Barbossa scoffed, stepping towards her in four strides. His hand returned to her hair, and he pulled her head back to look up at him as he towered over her. Miranda felt no fear as she looked into the decaying flesh, but she did not venture any more words.

"Miss Farthin'," he hissed, "if ye knew my plans for ye once the curse is lifted, ye'd not be so eager to help." His free hand cupped her chin as he glared at her, but after a moment he relaxed his hand and trailed one finger from her jaw down her throat until his hand was resting heavily over her heart. Miranda wondered if he could feel how fast it was beating, but if he could, his expression did not change, for he kept his shadowed eyes locked coldly on hers.

"I want to help," she whispered, drawing one hand from her side and resting it on top of the rotting hand on her chest. Barbossa's eyes darted from her face to her hand on his, and the remainder of his lips curled back baring rotten brown teeth. He yanked his hands away from her and stepped back, bringing his eyes back to hers. For several seconds the two stared challengingly at the other. Abruptly, Barbossa turned on his heel and melted into the shadows of the ship, leaving Miranda alone by the rail to piece together what had just occurred.


	10. Quentin

**Chapter Ten**

The cobblestone burned Miranda's bare feet as she dashed across the road toward her brother. In her small fist she held a scone stolen from her mother's luncheon.

"Can't catch me!" Quentin sang, making a face at her. Miranda dodged the nanny pushing a pram and hurtled herself at the ten year old, knocking him to the ground.

"Gotcha!" she cried delightedly, sitting soundly on top of him, but Quentin grabbed her sides and tickled her. Miranda shrieked with indignant laughter as she toppled off him and curled up, trying to avoid his hands. Quentin snatched the scone from her loosened grip and jumped to his feet victoriously.

"No, no, no! Quentin, that's mine!" Miranda cried, leaping up but not being tall enough to reach the pastry.

"Oh, fine. If you're going to be a baby about it . . ." Quentin broke the scone in half and handed her the larger end. Miranda accepted the treat happily and plopped down on the step of old Miss Brembley's house. Quentin joined her on the stoop and the two devoured the snack in vast, childish content.

/\

Miranda tasted blood on her lip as she bit it trying not to cry. Merry sunlight poured through the window of the cabin, but she shuddered in pain as the memory faded from her mind.

The events of the night before came rushing back, and Miranda hugged her knees tightly to her chest, as if straining every muscle would make the horror of the memories go away.

She tried telling herself that Quentin had died to save an entire crew from a curse worse than death.

_But it wasn't just Quentin_, another part of her argued. _It was so many others that needn't have died . . . needn't have been murdered by pirates foul even before the curse and unchanged after it. _

Miranda closed her eyes and felt the memory of Barbossa's hand on her heart.

A distraction was in order.

Miranda left the bed and winced as she stood. The pain was still demandingly present, but she could ignore it. Miranda knelt by the bed and pulled out a trunk she had noticed underneath the day before, but had been too preoccupied to investigate at the time. Opening it, she was not disappointed, for the chest was full of a wide assortment of clothes. Crumpled, torn, stained, but clothes nonetheless. Locating a simple blue shift, she pulled it over her head and felt almost like her old self again: decent. She cinched the dress with a worn leather belt, and searched the bottom of the trunk for shoes.

It seemed her luck ran out at the dress, but not disheartened, Miranda piled the clothes she'd tossed about the room back into the trunk, slid it under the bed again, and cracked the door open.

The men were at work; something in their effort made Miranda wonder if they were nearing a desired destination, for their movement was more eager and swift. She slipped out of the room and nodded pleasantly at the men as she passed, hoping her nonchalance would detract attention. It worked to some affect, and she was able to reach the location with little difficulty.

"You?" Erin asked incredulously, rising to her feet as Miranda opened the door at the top of the steps.

"I thought I scared you away," Erin continued, amused, leaning against the bars.

"I've been held captive by cursed pirates for weeks," Miranda replied, forcing her voice to be bolder than she felt. "You'd need to work harder to frighten me."

"Touché," the woman agreed. "And how will you help me escape, little miss?"

"I'm not much better off than you."

"Least you can move about freely. I'm losing money for every hour I'm locked up."

Miranda descended the stairs and sat on the bottom one, splashing her feet in the salt water that still flooded inches of the floor. She beheld Erin thoughtfully until the woman began narrowing her eyes at her.

"Of all the things you could do with life . . . " Miranda began, but Erin barked a laugh and finished, "why be a whore? It may sound strange to you, Little Miranda, but I like what I do, and I like getting paid for it."

"You have no regrets?"

Erin grinned. "Only a few, but those were purely personal reasons. The ugly goats paid well enough at the end. Now it's my turn." Erin straightened up and looked hard at Miranda.

"How is it a girl like you has survived this long on a ship of blood-thirsty pirates?"

"I don't question good fortune," Miranda replied honestly. "A week ago I thought I'd die of starvation, days after that I thought I'd be eaten by cannibals, and just a few days ago I didn't think I'd ever be free of the cell you're in right now. Things will get better for you, too, I'm sure."

Erin swore abruptly, a darkness passing over her face. Miranda stood up and took a few steps nearer. "Are you--?"

Jerking her head up, Erin bared her teeth in what she must have hoped would be a smile.

"Girl, I was caught stealing gold from violent pirates. Cursed, violent pirates. I don't know why I'm still alive."

"These men are different," Miranda began, wildly wondering why she was defending her captors. Erin's forced smile twisted even wider.

"No, they're not. I assume the only reason they haven't killed me yet is because they've been too busy."

"They won't." But Erin caught the uncertainty growing in Miranda's words.

"Says who, you?" She laughed. "From the looks of it, the only person the captain loathes more than me is you, and you won't get a crew riled up to rebel for the sake of a whore."

Miranda sat back down heavily. Erin's words shouldn't have cut so deep, but they burned ferociously at her heart. The woman pressed her face between the bars to look at her more closely.

"Oh, God," she breathed, marking the reaction her words elicited. "You want him."

Miranda felt a jolt shoot through her as she looked sharply up at Erin, who smiled grimly in return.

"I'm right, aren't I?"

"No." The word was meant to assure Erin as much as herself. "No, he killed my brother. He's cruel and heartless--"

"--and you shouldn't feel the way you do, but you do?" Erin contributed. "I've heard the story a hundred different ways. Girls like you can't resist men like the captain. Hell, _I_ was that girl once upon a time. Get over it now, and you'll be--"

"Stop it," Miranda growled through gritted teeth.

"Ooh, kitten had claws!" Erin laughed. "Run along now and rebuild your façade. I won't tell anyone."

"You may be wrong, but I'm going to get you out of here," Miranda hissed angrily_. _Fuming, she hurried up the stairs, and once she closed the door behind her, she leaned against a barrel and sunk to the ground.

Erin's words shouldn't hurt as much as they did, Miranda told herself. Erin was wrong. Barbossa perhaps didn't _delight_ in her company, but he couldn't loathe it; she'd be dead by now if he didn't get some sort of amusement from her. _No one like to be disliked_, Miranda told herself firmly to justify her crushed feelings. It had to have been a matter of insecurity on her part to prompt such emotions from Erin's words. And of course, Erin had said a lot of things with which Miranda didn't agree. She had been wrong about a lot of things, but something that flickered in Erin's eyes had suggested to Miranda that the woman was not beyond changing, and Miranda wanted to help her.

A scuffling noise behind her head distracted her from her thoughts, and she whipped around to find herself face to face with the squashed-looking visage of the pirate she gathered was named Pintel.

"Hello," she greeted, hoping she sounded cheerful.

" 'Allo," he grunted absently and turned around to rummage through a crate.

Seizing the opportunity, Miranda inquired pleasantly, "Where are we going?"

"Nowhere 't concerns ye," he mumbled, slamming the lid back on the crate and opening another.

"As long as I'm aboard, I should think it concerns me as much as it concerns you," she pointed out, her voice still even and unaccusing.

"Thought wrong, di'n'cha, poppet?"

"Though' wrong, ya did!" A new voice piped in, and the lanky, one-eyes pirate popped up from another pile of crates.

"Silly me," Miranda agreed, standing. "What are you two looking for?"

"Lost a-"

"Shut tha' hole, ya floppy-lipped sea slug," Pintel barked, and Ragetti shrugged at Miranda.

"We be lookin' fer nuffin," Pintel finished solidly.

"If you tell me what it is, I can help you," Miranda offered, lifting the lid of the barrel against which she'd been leaning and peering inside.

"Da cap'tin can't find a purse of--" Ragetti began again, but Pintel slapped him broadside the head, knocking out his wooden eye.

"He's missing some of the cursed gold?" Miranda asked intuitively. Pintel looked hard at her.

"Now, 'ow'd ya know 'bout 'da gold?"

"I saw several of the men in the moonlight last night. Barbossa told me everything."

Pintel scratched his head as Ragettis pounced on a new box and opened it up, scattering its contents all over the floor. Miranda watched the lanky pirate's work.

"If nothing else, I can clean up after you both." She desperately wanted to keep herself busy.

Pintel considered this, and finally grumbled, "Aye, then."

Miranda soon realized that the boxes, crates, and chests they were going through contained the vast majority of their spoils. One box she pried open contained dresses fine enough for a queen, gem-encrusted shoes, and silken kerchiefs imported from China. Another contained what must have been a shipment of raw stones from India to an English jeweler.

After perhaps an hour of searching and picking up after the two messy pirates, Miranda lifted the lid of a humble, beaten chest. It was mainly full of clothes, but resting on a dull white tunic was a small leather pouch. Silently, Miranda plucked it up and loosened the drawstrings. A familiar golden glow issued from the purse, and she noted there were three coins within. As she pulled the strings tight again, a smell reached her nose that almost sent her reeling. With one hand slipping the pouch into the pocket of her dress, Miranda pawed at the clothes in the chest with a new fervor. She recognized none of the clothes, but leaned down, deeply inhaling the smell of the fabric.

Miranda's grip on the edge of the chest tightened as she felt tears stinging her lids. There was no mistaking the smell of her brother . . . and home. This had been his trunk.

_Quentin._

/\

"Miranda, I know you're in there!" the sixteen year old called through the door. Miranda clutched her pillow to her breast and curled up tighter, stifled sobs wracking her body.

She heard a scraping at the door and knew he was picking the lock. He'd learned all sorts of mischief and tricks from his friends, and Miranda steeled herself for his entrance.

The door swung open and Miranda looked up from the pillow at her brother, still kneeling at the door. His brow knitting together, he stood up and looked at her.

"Now tell me what happened." He demanded, stepping into the room.

Miranda let out a wail all girls by thirteen learn to perfect and looked up at Quentin.

"He--he asked me to go on a wuh-walk with him," she stammered through her tears.

"Who did?" Quentin asked suspiciously, sitting on the edge of her bed.

"Richard!" Miranda cried woefully, burying her face in the pillow. Quentin rested a gentle hand on her back, and said, "Isn't that good? I thought you liked him."

"I do!" Miranda insisted, looking up at her brother. "But, but when I said yes, he laughed and said he'd been joking--that he'd never want to be seen with muh-me." Another wail slipped from Miranda's mouth and she softened it by hiding behind the pillow.

She felt Quentin rise from the bed, and she peeked up at him. He looked down kindly at her.

"I'll make that little wanker pay," he promised. Miranda sat up weakly at his words, and he continued, "No one makes my sister cry and gets away unbruised."

/\

Miranda clutched the shirt like she had the pillow some five or six years ago. Quentin's scent haunted her mind as she fought to keep more memories at bay. Tears pushed their way out of her eyes as she bit her lip to keep back a sob. Remembering her surrounding, Miranda rubbed her eyes quickly. In one corner Pintel was tossing shoes out of a box with wild abandon. Ragetti was closer to her, gingerly lifting a golden box out of a crate and opening it up.

Seething fury pumped from the icy depths of Miranda's heart as she let the shirt fall back into the chest. She slammed the lid down with one foot, capturing the attention of the two men.

"'ere now, what's this?" Pintel demanded, but Miranda ignored him.

"Filthy-hearted maggots!" she shrieked, violently kicking a barrel over and sending pears rolling across the gently-rocking floor. Without another word, she ran up the stairs, past the sleeping deck and onto the main deck. She flew to the stern of the ship whereat Barbossa stood at the wheel, his gaze set straight ahead.

It wasn't fair that such a good, wonderful man had been killed needlessly by the blood-thirsty whim of pirates. It wasn't right that she found herself in the clutches of the same monsters and hadn't shown them her fury yet.

"You!" she screamed, mounting the last few steps to the level on which the captain stood. Her anger clouded her mind as she rationalized dying for the sake of inconveniencing her brother's murderer.

Barbossa made no motion to acknowledge her save in words.

"Miss Farthin'?"

"I hope you rot for eternity," Miranda proceeded, her voice now low and trembling with hate.

"Now what did I do t' merit that pleasant wish?" Barbossa asked, clearly uninterested.

"You killed Quentin."

"That again?" Barbossa almost sounded bored. "Miss Farthin', we've been over this again and again. 'Twas nothin' personal, his death."

Miranda had no weapons, but she didn't feel any one weapon was necessary; she wanted to strangle Barbossa only with her own two hands. She hurtled herself at him (sickeningly reminded of how she'd tackled her brother when she was so much younger).

Barbossa caught her and threw her roughly to the ground. Miranda's head connected soundly with the wooden planks, and he world went momentarily grey. She looked up at the captain, who had resumed his place at the wheel as if nothing had happened. Using the rail to pull herself up, Miranda felt the weight of the pouch in her pocket. She reached for it and pulled out one of the coins.

"Tell me, Captain," she began, her words coated with anger, "can you swim?"

Barbossa turned, intrigued with the question until he saw the object in her hand. His expression hardened, but did not turn upset.

"I wouldn' do anything rash, lest ye live to regret it."

"I will only regret," Miranda started, her voice alive with fury, "the days I lived without hating you as much as I do now." She flipped the coin out of her hands and watched it arc through the air before landing with an innocent _plunk_ in the waves below.

Miranda dug the last two coins out and hurled them also into the vast ocean. Barbossa fixed his burning gaze on her. "That was a foolish thing fer ye to be doin', Miss."

"There's nothing you can threaten me with anymore," Miranda half-sobbed, her knuckles white from holding the rail so tightly. The pain from her burns seemed to have returned after so much movement. "I don't want to live trapped with the men who killed the one person I held most dear."

"Then I won' make ye," Barbossa growled, lunging at her. He scooped her up in his arms effortlessly and flipped her over the rail, now holding on to her wrist with one hand.

"Now go recover the gold you lost, or don't return a'tall," he hissed, and let go.


	11. Identity

**Chapter Eleven**

Miranda opened her eyes and found herself in a bed. Bright light shone through the window, making her squint. She felt cold and realized she'd been stripped down to her underclothes. Her hair hung in damp, knotted tentacles.

And then she remembered.

When her body had crashed into the water, a burning pain like no other wracked her body as the salt of the ocean met her wounds. She remembered screaming, and hearing the men on the ship calling "woman overboard!"

Too overwhelmed with the pain, Miranda could not tread or even swim. She recalled feeling the cold strength of the sea wash over her head before the world went black.

On the table next to the bed were three gold coins.

Miranda swore coarsely. Everything she'd tried had failed. Thwarting the lifting of the curse had merely delayed them. She doubted they had even let fall the anchor to retrieve the medallions.

The door opened and the one man she wanted never to see again entered. Miranda was too weak to do anything, so she collapsed back against her pillow and glared at him.

"No need for that, Miss Farthin'. Ye made yer feelin's plain earlier."

"Why couldn't you just let me die?" Her voice was pathetic; softer than she'd wanted, and full of despair. She wished she could be braver, wished she could hide her feelings more thoroughly, but still the words left her mouth as weakly as snowflakes melting skin.

Barbossa dragged the chair from the corner to her bedside and sat down it. For a long moment neither spoke as they coldly beheld the other.

"Miss Farthin', I'm a cursed man," the captain began. "'Tis true I feel no pain nor discomfort when attempted, but I feel no joy either--be it tried or accidental. I always be hungry, always be thirsty, always be desi'rous of a warm touch, but do ye know what the worst part of the curse be?"

Miranda shook her head.

"_Knowin'_. See, Miss Farthin', I _remember_ what this apple once tasted like. I _remember_ how the cool sea wind felt on me face. I remember i'tall in agonizin' detail. And the same goes for emotions, but they give me little trouble. I know when I be angry even if I can' feel my own anger, and I can shape me face to appear angry.

'Now all this be terrible fer me crew; some in denial, some in despair, but all be miserable. A' first I saw 't as a blessin'. With no need to eat nor drink, nor pain to endure or emotions to cloud me judgment, I was impervious to defeat. Me crew and I could outlast any fight, fer we can' tire or die. Years of the curse wore on me crew an' I began to see it as less than a blessin'. That's when we started searchin' fer the pieces we'd gambled away.

'Thing is, I never thoroughly wished the curse from me hide till ye came kickin' an' bitin' yer way onto me ship." At this Barbossa stood and walked to the window, his back turned to Miranda. He withdrew an apple from his pocket and looked carefully at it.

"I _know_ if I ate this apple, Miss Farthin', were I not cursed, t'would taste more wonderful than any apple I've ever eaten. I know _what_ t'would taste like could I savor it, but when I try, all I feel is texture." He turned to look back at Miranda.

"I know that I want ye, Miss Farthin'. No mistakin' that. I want the fiery strumpet did kiss me in the brig, but even more," he stepped towards her. "I want this tearful lass that yesternight asked to help save me and me crew."

Miranda shied from his outstretched hand, her mind suddenly, horrifyingly blank. A part of her rose up, ready to greet his hand with hers, but the rest of her was the part that cringed under his gaze, knowing those hands had killed her brother.

Oh, cruel, cruel passion that defied her mourning heart! It was wicked and careless, begging her to forget the terrible past and sail with merry ease to the man before her. He killed her dearest friend and now looked to her with a lusty eye--an eye that could not be sated so long as the curse still hung over his head. Miranda worked through her tears and treacherous desires towards righteous indignation and finally sat up, looking coldly at the captain.

"You are a monster," she declared. "And I won't be some plaything to amuse you until you tire of me and cast me to the waves."

"Ye say that," Barbossa began quietly as he reached the bedside and leaned close to her, "as if I asked fer yer acquiescence in the matter."

Miranda scrambled back against the wall. "I'm not an object, _captain._ I may have a weak arm to fight you with but I'd rather die than find myself taken by you."

"Taken," Barbossa repeated, turning the word over in his head. "Aye, Miss Farthin', 'tis a good word. Soon I'll have every part of you."

Miranda scarcely formed the word "no" in her mouth when the man lunged at her, yanking her head towards his harshly with both hands and closing his mouth around hers. She struggled to turn her head, but his hands held tight.

As violent as his grip was on her, however, his lips were deftly gentle, his tongue maddeningly slow. To Miranda's horror, she found herself not completely averse to his actions, and what was even more, she found her own mouth greeting his more tenderly--deepening and lengthening the kiss.

She felt a cold rush of blood swoop through her chest as his hands abandoned their vice grip on her head to rove to her waist. One hand rode the curves up her side until it rested softly on her shoulder, and Miranda felt Barbossa pull back. She moved accordingly closer, challenging him to end the kiss.

In a swift movement he shoved her back against the wall, laughing all the while.

"Miss Farthin'," he managed to say, "there be not much left of ye to be takin'."

Breathless but fuming, Miranda looked sharply at him. "But do tell me, _Captain_," she spat, "how much of you was wishing that you could taste the softness of my mouth and feel the warmth of my curves against your palms?"

The smile flickered on Barbossa's mouth, and Miranda felt one of her own curving her lips. She'd struck a nerve. He didn't lash out, much to her surprise. Rather, his face was wiped of emotion, and his shoulders assumed a weary slump to them. His gaze met Miranda's, and she was struck with the thought that although he couldn't feel, some form of desolation could still deaden his eyes.

"Every part." His answer was simple, toneless, and Miranda winced as he slammed the door behind him. As she listened to his heavy footfalls fade into the distance, she fought the overwhelming urge to chase after him.

_Monster, murderer_. She tried pinning the words she'd called him earlier on his image, but found now it difficult. All she could think of was the despair in his eyes. Despite the curse, he had been human once, and part of him _must_ still be human.

And Miranda wanted to know that part of him desperately.

/\

The next day the ship was anchored by the reef of a small island. From her room, Miranda could hear the men scurrying about the deck, and it occurred to her that perhaps she, too, could leave the ship. Heartened with this idea, she slipped from the cabin and made her way upstairs to the main deck. Through the hustle and bustle of the crew collecting trunks and crates to load onto the rowboats, she did not locate Barbossa among them. She ribboned her way to his dining quarters and softly knocked on the door.

"Enter." His voice was careless. Miranda soundlessly obeyed and saw the captain sitting with his back to her at the table.

"Captain?" she began softly. He whirled around and looked at her critically, then slowly nodded his head for her to continue. "I was wondering if I might be able to leave the ship--I dearly miss walking on solid, unmoving ground."

Barbossa crossed his arms and stared hard at her. It was a long moment before he spoke.

"First: Yer a prisoner, Miss Farthin', and therefore it be not yer place to make requests. Second: We be transportin' our treasure--'cludin' the cursed gold, an' I certainly don't trust ye after that gesture ye made yesterday. Third:" he smiled wickedly. "I don't feel like lettin' ye."

"Oh," Miranda replied, dismayed. "Yes, I see." She didn't want to fight him anymore; she had nothing more to say. Barbossa took a step toward her, and looked almost surprised.

"Is that all?"

"I believe so." She left without another word.

/\

As the small, rocky island dipped below the horizon, Miranda finally tore her gaze from the window. Not because she had nothing left to watch, but because someone knocked harshly on her door and proceeded to fling it open.

"Yes?" Miranda asked, looking at the scruffy man in the doorway as he leered at her.

"Cap'n wants yer comp'ny dis evenin'."

"Now?"

"Aye. Said 'e wants ya ta wear dis." The man tossed a bundle of black and burgundy cloth at her, and then slammed the door shut. Miranda held the dress up by the shoulders and let the fabric fall in place. It was a lovely design trimmed with black French lace and generously gathered at every seam. It must have required yards and yards of fabric to make and a fortune to buy. But then again, pirates never paid for anything.

Looking with mixed disdain and wonder at the dress, Miranda ducked under the voluminous skirts and pulled it over her head. It was a bit large for her shortness, and the sleeves reached her knuckles, but it still laced up properly.

Miranda tried vainly to smooth out wrinkles caused from neglect and storage as she made her way to the main deck. The sun was setting and shot bright slivers of gold and pink across the sky, hemming the clouds in ruby. It was lovely, but all she could think of was him. She knocked on his door for the second time in two days. This time he opened it to usher her in.

"Why all the ceremo-" Miranda stopped, gazing with delight at the table overweighed with food. She'd been living on morsels and water for weeks, but she didn't realize how hungry she'd been until this moment.

"The food'll go bad soon; might as well let someone enjoy it," Barbossa said, gesturing for her to be seated.

Miranda tucked into the food before her, relishing each flavor and letting no platter go unsampled.

"Miss Farthin', who are ye?" Barbossa asked suddenly, leaning back in his own chair and scrutinizing her across the table. Miranda swallowed her bite of salmon and looked up.

"I'm afraid I don't understand the question."

"Every time I see ye, ye act diff'rently. One moment a crazed banshee, the next a polite doll, then a furious storm, and then a passionate little tart who can't resist some extra . . . attention." Barbossa leaned forward, surveying her face as if her were trying to read a book. "Which one are ye really?"

Miranda rested her fork on the edge of her plate and looked down as she reflected on her behavior. She had no answer for the captain, for she herself didn't know.

"I'm still trying to figure that out," she confessed, surprised at her openness. Barbossa also looked taken aback at her honesty.

"These past few weeks can't have been easy on ye." His words were gently said.

"Captain Barbossa," Miranda started, locking eyes with him. "You accuse me of too many personalities when you yourself have too many to count. Who are you, the cursed captain? The heartless murderer? Or perhaps the man who gave me his bed to sleep in and opened the door for me as I entered?"

"T'would seem I'm as intrigued by ye as ye be by me."

"Aye," Miranda agreed, almost smiling. The captain said nothing more as she continued to eat. She felt his stare on her, but somehow was not uncomfortable with it. As she finally felt she could eat no more, she looked back at the man.

"Could it be, Captain, that there is every type of personality in all of us, and the ones we allow to surface make up our own identity?"

Barbossa thought this over, a smile creeping up his lips.

"Clever girl. I wager yer on to somethin' there."

The compliment shouldn't have sent a wave of pleasure through her heart, but it did nonetheless. Miranda ducked her head to hide her smile, and thought wildly how to change the subject.

"Captain?" She looked up again. "May I be so bold as to ask to where you are sailing the ship?"

"White's Reef. We have a . . . _deposit_ to make."

"What would that be?"

"Ruby."

Miranda leaned back, confused. Barbossa cocked his head, and added, "The sailors' slut. The whore. The . . . impure woman."

"What are you going to do with her?" Miranda demanded, standing up.

Barbossa walked his fingers off the table. "_Splash_."

"But she did nothing--"

"She was caught stealing the gold, Miss Farthin'. And the crew needs some entertainment."

"I _threw_ gold off the ship! Where's my punishment?" Miranda hardly comprehended the words she was allowing slip from her mouth, for all she could think of was Erin's life.

"This ship has no need for more'n one female." Barbossa answered simply and calmly.

"You can't--"

"Miss Farthin', you have no 'thority the matter," Barbossa snapped, his voice suddenly harsh from her challenge.

Miranda felt tears springing to her eyes again, but she fought them back fiercely. "What about the kind part of you? I know it's there, Captain. _Please_ have mercy on her." Her words trembled as she slowly reached out a hand to his.

Barbossa watched her movement with interest and stepped around the table closer to her.

"Miss Farthin'." His voice was gentle but reprimanding, like a father chiding a child not his own. There was warmth in her name, and Miranda couldn't explain why, but she felt beckoned to him. In one moment she found herself in his arms as she pressed her cheek to his chest, closing her eyes as she forced back tears. The captain patted her awkwardly on the back, his own spine stiffened almost backwards in surprise to her unexpected action.

He set both hands on her shoulders and pushed her softly back to look down at her, and just when Miranda thought something truly wonderful had happened, he said, "Ye'd better get used to life with pirates sooner or later, Miss. Ye can't cry over everyone."

"But--"Miranda begged, her voice cracking.

"She walks at sundown. Ye can stay below deck if ye wish."

Miranda shook herself from his light hold on her shoulders and glanced up at his face. She felt the tears finally fall as she gave up trying to hide them. That same man who smiled kindly at her, fed her, rescued her from fire and water also condemned men and women for petty crimes, if any at all. How could she feel what she felt for such a monster?

"Why do you make this so hard?" When she realized she'd said this aloud, she instantly ducked her head and fled from the room.


	12. The Man on the Island

**Chapter Twelve**

It didn't matter what she felt.

It didn't matter what she thought he could someday feel.

It didn't matter, because emotions were no substitute for reason.

Miranda sat on the steps leading down to the brig, staring helplessly at the empty cell. Hours ago it had held a woman in the prime of her life. Sinful, yes, but human. Now it held only the water that coursed in and out with the tilting of the ship. In, out. Miranda wished she could leave her fate so easily.

Barbossa was a killer. She'd been witness to his actions numerous times now, but something kept drawing her back to him. Was it freedom? Was it the actions he allowed to betray his passions as no true English gentleman would? There were no rules of civility, no rules of etiquette, only truth.

She had to escape. She felt fondness for an evil man, and as long as she remained on his ship her judgement would become more and more clouded. She could become one of them. If her hand caused her to steal, she must chop it off. If her eye caused her to sin, she must pluck it out. If her heart caused her to love the wrong man, she must break it.

Miranda stood wearily. The crew had been celebrating all evening both the added contribution to the gold they'd deposited and the entertaining execution. She could hear the strains of a cheery reel being played on the fiddle by one of the men, and thumping overhead as the men danced and drank rum they could neither taste nor enjoy.

_Bloody pirates. _

Miranda made her way up the steps onto the holding deck where the men celebrated. No one noticed her as she slipped up the final steps to the main deck, and Miranda caught herself searching for Barbossa's face among the men and instantly reprimanded herself. Once she reached the cool sea breeze her head cleared of dark and heavy thoughts. She was to be free.

There was not a soul on deck as she stole into the captain's cabin to stock up on food for her voyage. She had no qualms stealing from a crew that had no need to eat, but she did defy her morals as she slipped a few extra things from a cabinet into the haversack.

Reaching the rowboat was perhaps the most difficult task. It was not tied directly by the Jacob's ladder clinging to the side of the ship, and Miranda had to haul the heavy, sea-swollen rope to which the small boat was knotted to grasp the edge.

She tossed the supplies she'd collected recklessly into the boat and then climbed shakily in. Using a stiletto she'd found in Barbossa's cabin, she sawed furiously at the rope until the rowboat was released from its leash.

As the boat drifted away from the _Pearl_, a thick wave of panic overcame her as she realized she was completely on her own in the middle of the ocean. Although she'd stolen a few of Barbossa's navigational instruments, including a small spyglass and a compass made of dark wood and edged in brass, these tools were useless if she didn't know where she was to begin with.

Her main priority, however, was to get away from the ship. Her absence would probably not be noted until the next morning, but Miranda would take no chances. Knowing how fast the _Pearl_ could sail in favorable conditions, she rationalized the best thing to do would be to row _against _the wind and hope Barbossa would assumed she'd done the opposite for convenience's sake, should he search for her.

Miranda now knew what she meant to him--what she'd always ever meant to him: she would have been an easy outlet for him to test the rewards of breaking the curse. It was a shameful role he intended her to play; vulgar, selfish, and demeaning. And yet . . .

. . . part of Miranda had been stirred by the words _soon I'll have every part of you_.

/\

On the third day of Miranda's escape, she saw land growing on the horizon. It didn't look to be a fully-civilized island, but as the waves towed her closer, she saw docks and and a little town resting by the seaside.

As she neared it, however, her hopes began to fall as she saw the ships that docked in the bay. Some had innocent colors flapping in the wind; reds, blues, solid blacks, but several bore a recognizable skull over crossbones, cutlasses, or feathers. This was clearly a pirate's port.

Miranda steered the small boat away from the harbor; she wanted to attract as little attention as possible. The sun was low in the sky, and Miranda feared she might be forced to spend the night. All she really needed, however, was to get her bearings. Once she new in which direction to sail towards Port Royal, she didn't even need a second party to get her there.

She tugged the boat ashore and crudely tied it to a palm. Gathering her supplies and shoving it back into her haversack, she slung it over her shoulder and began to hike into town.

Trying passionately to not judge the townspeople as she stepped onto the main street proved difficult. Women with heavily painted faces wearing nothing but skirts and corsets glared at her as they walked haughtily by, and boys no older than fifteen darted in front of her path and almost got away with the spyglass in Miranda's sack. How he'd opened it without her knowledge was beyond her, but she snatched it back at the last second, chiding him as he ran away. Men approached her, tactlessly looking her up and down before asking her rates.

Ducking through a door with a swinging sign above that read "Aesop's Tables", Miranda escaped the newest of her willing patrons and found herself in a bar.

The evening was still quite young; it was obvious the business was still setting up for the wild evening that would surely come, but already a few men with the painted women at their sides sat at tables and argued, laughed, or both with one another.

On the far side of the wall was what delighted Miranda. Yes, it was old and faded, and somewhat incomplete, but it was a large map of Central America nonetheless. She hurried up to it and began examining it. Much of Mexico was ripped from the frame, and lewd comments had been scribbled on certain islands describing the women one could find there, but she could still read the labels.

Hesitantly, she tapped the shoulder of the man nearest to her, who was in a drawling conversation with two younger men. He looked lazily up at her, but his dark eyes bore fiercely into her with a strange familiarity of mania.

"Yes, love?" Even his voice sounded familiar.

"What island is this?" Miranda asked sheepishly

He looked steadily at her, laughter in his eyes. "Amann."

Miranda nodded, and turned around, hastily searching for Amann on the map. It was nowhere to be found. Frustrated, she looked back at the man to whom she'd inquired. He was back in conversation with the others. She approached him.

"Pardon, again," she began, keeping her voice even, "but I can't find Amann."

"Maybe your rates are too high!" The table of men laughed heartily at his joke, and finally the first man added, still chuckling, "I was just liftin' your skirts, love; this island is Liebres."

And suddenly Miranda remembered where she'd seen him before. He was the man on the island.

"Jack," she tested. He glanced back up at her.

"Have we met before, lass?"

"I hardly recognize you without your beetle face-paint," Miranda contributed. Recognition dawned on the man's face.

"Aye, you're the girl I almost had to eat!" he exclaimed, delighted. "And how are those fine legs of yours, love? Still burned?" Without another word he began pulling up the hem of her skirts, but Miranda jumped back. Jack and the men at the table roared with laughter at this.

"They're still healing," Miranda replied hotly, and whirled around to look again at the map. She located Liebres on the map with much more success, and was heartened to find it was not impossibly far from Port Royal. Miranda dug around her bag in search for the compass.

"Where are you headed, love?" Jack called to her curiously as she rummaged about.

"None of your business," she snapped, locating the small wooden box and withdrawing it. In less than a heartbeat Jack was at her side, his hands raking forward to snatch the compass from her grasp. Indignant, Miranda clutched the tool to her chest and glared at him.

"Where did you get that?" He demanded softly, looking at her with a new look in his eyes.

Miranda repeated her last reply to him, but remained otherwise motionless.

"What do you want for that compass?" Jack asked, his voice suspiciously smooth and gentle.

"A free ride to Port Royal," Miranda suggested sarcastically, tucking the box back into her back for the time being.

"Done." Jack's agreement startled her and she looked at him in disbelief. He grinned toothily. "You see, love, that compass is rightfully mine, but was stolen by a man of profound presumption and conceit."

"Barbossa?" Miranda hazarded, and Jack's grin widened.

"Ah, so you've met."

Miranda nodded, still looking warily at him. Jack returned to the other subject. "It is great fortune, love, that I happen to be sailing _in_ the direction _of_ Port Royal in the morning. If you hand over that compass, I'll be willing to jeopardize the luck of the crew by allowing you on board."

"How very kind of you," Miranda said condescendingly, but it was wasted on Jack. His grin never faltered, and he finished the deal with, "Lovely. Be on the north dock at sunrise. Look for me or the _Tempest_."

Miranda thanked him and made to leave, but Jack caught her by the arm. "I don't suppose you'd give me the compass now?"

It was Miranda's turn to grin. "When I am standing at Port Royal, then you may have the compass."

"Clever girl," Jack approved. "It _will_ be bad luck to have you on board."

/\

It wasn't until noon that Jack staggered onto the dock the next day. Miranda had been sitting on a barrel next to the small ship christened _The Tempest_ for more hours than she wanted to count waiting for him. She couldn't believe she'd waited so long for this clearly hung-over pirate to carry her home, but it was some consolation that due to her uncomfortable bed in the forest away from town, she wouldn't have slept much longer than daybreak anyway.

"Ah, you're early," Jack exclaimed unnecessarily. Miranda was top irritated to dignify his comment, and merely stood as he drew nearer. He continued, "Almost thought you wouldn't make it. It is sinfully early."

"It's noon." Miranda reminded him drily, "And you're late."

Jack sauntered up to her, amused by her accusation. "Love," he began, patronizingly slow. "I said sunrise, and _sunrise_ is a word for morning, and _morning _is whenever I wake up. _I'm_ right on time, love; _you're_ the early one."

Miranda gave up arguing. "This is your ship?" She asked, changing the subject and gesturing to the small vessel behind her.

"Of sorts," Jack replied mysteriously.

"Where is your crew?" Miranda was suddenly suspicious.

"With a ship this small, darling, I can sail it by me onesies and cut the cost of salary. Now, come."

Although the prospect of sailing alone with this madman was not altogether desirable, it was a much better alternative to rowing her way back to Port Royal. _The voyage will be brief_, Miranda told herself as she followed Jack up the narrow gangway. _And soon all this dealing with pirates will be over_. This thought cheered her. She watched Jack untie the ship from the dock, offering no help--she had no obligation to aid him--he could, as he'd said, sail it by his own "onesies."

As the westerly wind caught the sails and gently pulled the ship from the harbor, Jack sighed with content. "_Now_ the ship is mine."

No sooner had he said that then a ringing screech echoed from the dock. Miranda whipped around to see the figure of a dark-skinned woman sprinting down the dock and halting gingerly at the edge.

"Jack Sparrow!" she screamed. "That's _my_ ship!"

Jack laughed and ran to the side of the boat. "You never were good with grammar, my Anamaria. _Was_ your ship, love. _Was_."

Although the sails were catching more wind and sending the ship faster along the waves, Miranda could see the woman's face darken in rage.

"You'll regret this, Jack!" she shouted furiously, but the man merely barked another laugh and glanced at Miranda. Seeing her look of disapproval, he tilted his head to the side.

"Pirate." His gesture was much more grand this time now that his hands were not compromised by netting and rope.

--

**A/N: **So sorry it took so long to get this chapter out. School and word are totally owning me at the moment. Hope you liked it; I realized while writing chapter four I love writing for Jack-- I hope he's still in character; let me know if you have any pointers, since he'll be in the following chapter and . . . well. Maybe a few more after that.

Anyway, thanks for the reviews I've been receiving so far; they really are wonderful to get and motivate me to write more (hint, hint). But, seriously, they're great.


	13. Come Back to Me

**Chapter Thirteen**

"Jack?" Miranda called, leaning on the rail of the _Tempest_ as she watched the small island draw near.

The man at the wheel took a swig of rum before glancing at her. "Yes, love?"

"That's . . . " Miranda struggled with the right words to question his navigating, but Jack anticipated her query.

"Not Port Royal. Yes, I know."

Miranda stared at him, but he merely grinned and set his eyes back to the sea.

"We had a deal," she pointed out finally. Four days sailing with him had been trouble enough; she most often stayed below deck and out of Jack's way as he mastered the little ship. His incessant off-key singing was topped only by his drinking, and not one night had gone by that Jack hadn't stumbled against Miranda's door, calling her "Roxie Darling" and asking her to drink with him. Needless to say, the thought that her trip with him would still be several days was thoroughly disheartening.

"Aye, lass. But when a man has a date, he musn't be late." His eyes lit up, and he looked at her with an open-mouthed smile. "And _that_," he began grandly, "was an exceptionally clever poem. I always knew I should be a writer."

"Let me guess," Miranda snapped sourly, ignoring his professed dream and addressing his excuse. "Roxie Darling?"

"Wha-? No, don't be ridiculous, love. She's only good for a limerick or two." Jack winked so lasciviously that Miranda whirled around and refused to face him as she directed her next question to the sky.

"And how long will this date take?" She felt a hand around her shoulder and then the sudden weight of Jack leaning against her. His face was disconcertingly close to hers as he also addressed the air.

"Don't worry, darling, it won't be long. I just need to pick up some effects I left my last visit."

Miranda thought back to the compass. "You don't keep good track of your things, do you?"

"It would be more accurate t'say they don't keep good track of me," Jack answered carelessly, returning to the wheel.

Jack dropped the anchor offshore of the small, densely green island and jumped down into the small skiff trailing behind the _Tempest_. Miranda followed suit whether she was invited on the date or not; any excuse to return to solid ground was good enough for her. The pirate didn't seem to care or notice her shadowing him, but rowed steadily towards the island.

As the two neared it, Miranda realized it seemed more like a marsh or swamp in the middle of the ocean. The waves lured the small boat into the murky waters swirling around thick-trunked trees coated heavily with spongy moss. Flowering vines hung down from the high canopy and trailed lazily in the water. Everything was very green and seemed very much alive.

The progressed deeper into the swamp until the thickness of the trees blotted out the sun entirely. Bright green and yellow fireflies danced about the trunks, skimming the water's surface and giving the whole scenery an ethereal glow. Enchanted, Miranda found herself smiling as she looked around and very much hoped she would someday return to this place.

A warm golden-red light twinkled in the dark ahead of them, and as the drew closer, she saw it was emanating from the window of a hut propped up on lopsided stilts out of the water. Soon a slow, deep song consisting of too many minor keys echoed towards them, casting an oddly dangerous mood to the swamp.

Jack rowed the boat in continued silence until they reached the stilts of the house, and he looped a rope around a nearby root. Hanging from the porch of the house was a rotten Jacob's ladder Miranda could only pray would support a person's weight.

Nimbly, Jack leapt onto the ladder and climbed up it not unlike a monkey. Miranda followed more cautiously and noticed but was not surprised when Jack did not aid her in the last few steps.

He fist was inches from a knock when the door flew open and a dark-skinned woman peered out. Her clothes were ragged but elegantly assembled, and if Miranda had any guess, she looked to be some sort of gypsy. The woman's face was pricked with ink-black circles, and her hair was matted and rolled into thick dreadlocks.

"Jack, I knew you'd come bahk," she said in a deeply Creole accent. She smiled and ushered him in, but then caught sight of Miranda and cocked her head knowingly.

"Ahnd you bring a friend for me," she added, beckoning Miranda to also enter the small hut.

"No, she's just a tagalong."

The woman ignored Jack as she continued to scrutinize Miranda, disregarding all manners and control.

"I seen you before?" she asked. Miranda shook her head, knowing she'd remember such an odd person. The woman smiled and laughed quietly, as if enjoying a personal joke.

"Latah, den. I see you latah." The woman's ridiculous conclusion didn't seem too absurd somehow as the words left her mouth. There was such certainty in her voice that Miranda had no choice but to believe this woman knew exactly what she was talking about.

"Tia, darling," Jack interrupted the conversation. "I left my bullet here."

"A bullet?" Miranda found herself demanding. "We came here for a _bullet_?"

The woman, Tia, smiled at Jack, and bustled over to a cluttered table on the other side of the room. Jack glanced smugly at Miranda. "Yes, love. I dragged you here for a bullet. But not just any bullet. _The_ bullet."

"Oh, _the_ bullet," Miranda scoffed. "And what, pray tell, is so special about this bullet?"

"You don't understand, lass." Jack's voice was suddenly reprimanding as he looked at her. At that moment Tia returned to Jack's side and handed him a single, insignificant-looking bullet. Jack wrapped one arm around the woman and took up the bullet with his other hand. "This bullet, see, belongs in a certain someone's chest cavity. More specifically: a certain someone's heart."

"Whose?"

"The man who stabbed me in the back. Figuratively speaking." He added, seeing Miranda's expression.

"But him did leave you for dead," Tia argued, looking up fondly at Jack. He nodded absently, his brows furrowed as his mind was clearly elsewhere. Tia looked back at Miranda, a mysterious glint in her eyes. "You stay for dinner?"

"We'd hate to in-"

"Of course!" Jack interrupted, jerked from his revery by the mention of food. Tia's smile broadened and squinted her eyes as she nodded happily and began bustling around by the small fireplace, banging old, dark pans together and stoking the emberous fire. Jack loaded his pistol with the single shot and then collapsed on a chair made from a tree stump.

"It is so good," Tia began, glancing at Miranda, "t'see you happy. I d'not yearn for da next time you come. Sad people makeh me sad."

Miranda didn't know how to interpret this statement, so she just forced a polite smile and asked, "You know the future then?"

"I know ev'ryting, child," Tia replied, smiling.

"Before you ask rudely," Jack started, engaging himself in the conversation. "Tia's a witch."

"Jack!" Tia scolded kindly, the smile still happily across her face. "I don' like dat word. It's ugly, ahnd makeh me feel old."

"Well, darling, if the boot fits . . . "

Miranda smiled as the two commenced in a duel of light bickering. She beheld the strange woman with utmost interest--witchcraft was not something taken easily in England. Or Port Royal, for that matter. However, because it had always been distantly addressed, Miranda felt no direct fear towards the woman before her. She wondered curiously what Tia had meant when she alluded to her future but was jerked from her thoughts by the smell of something truly repulsive.

"Frog and mushroom stew?" Jack asked in mid-insult to his beloved as the scent wafted over to him. Tia smiled proudly. "Aye. Just for you." She hastened to the fire and began pouring the chunky liquid into three bowls of various sizes. To Miranda's thorough dismay, she received the largest bowl.

"She cooks each frog," Jack started saying through large bites, "only halfway through, so no bite is too hot."

Sadly beholding the mud-brown soup, Miranda dipped her tarnished spoon in and took a sip of the broth. The shudder was completely involuntary but went unnoticed.

"Tia." As long as the three were dining she might as well make conversation. "What are the limits to your magic?"

Tia laughed softly, and stirred her soup. "Oh, child, I'll prob'ly nevah live long enough to find out. "

"What do you . . . "Miranda paused, looking for the right word, and ended weakly with, "do?"

"All sorts o' tings. Transformin' is easy, so's movin', and seein'." Tia cocked her head devilishly and leaned closer to Miranda across the table at which they were seated. "When you need sometin' done--sometin' _big_-come back to me."

Her words seemed greater than anything else that had been said that evening, and Miranda knew Tia had in mind a specific reason for when Miranda would return, and the fact that she showed no signs of elaborating was infuriating.

Tia seemed to sense her thoughts, for she only smiled wider and more slyly. She looked from Miranda to Jack, and then back to Miranda, and softly said, "I's a shame."

/\

"Is she always like that?" Miranda asked as she and Jack neared the _Tempest_. The sun was rising and Miranda's back ached from sleeping on the wooden porch. Jack had told her the sleeping arrangement would be either to join him and Tia in her bed or sleep outside. The choice had been an easy one.

Jack glanced back at her as he continued to steadily row. "All mystery and no answers? Yes. Maddening to most women."

"You aren't intrigued by things she says?" Miranda persisted, incredulous.

"_Love_," he drawled, "When I'm with that woman, I'm probably only thinking of one thing--and it's definitely not her frog stew." Another wink.

By this time they had reached the ship and Jack grabbed the rope of the skiff in his teeth and proceeded to scale the ladder up to the deck.

"And when will we reach Port Royal?" Following closely behind him, Miranda changed the subject with unveiled pointedness. Jack leapt on deck and coiled the rope intricately around the railing, giving Miranda a skeptic look.

"I don't know why you can't stand my company, love."

"It truly is a mystery," Miranda agreed drily, struggling over the rail as Jack watched her with amusement.

--

**A/N: **I've actually gone back and rewritten chapter one--nothing vitally important to the plot has changed, I just reread it the other day and hated how I wrote it. So if you'd like to check out the new and improved chapter one, feel free!


	14. A Good Man

Chapter Fourteen

Exhausted, freezing, and furious, Miranda staggered from the waves and collapsed in the sand. She glanced behind her, but _The Tempest_ had long since disappeared beyond the horizon.

Gasping for air, she directed angry thoughts at Jack, who had, upon catching sight of Port Royal, promptly informed her she would be swimming the rest of the way.

"That must be over a mile!" she'd exclaimed incredulously. Jack had merely shrugged, and explained that as a pirate, he could not sail any closer without risking capture. Miranda suspected he was just entertaining himself, but knew there'd be no convincing him once his mind had been made up.

Having handed Jack his compass as promised, he had humored her slightly by letting the ship drift a little closer before insisting she depart. The goodbye was brief. Miranda didn't much care for Jack and Jack didn't much like not being cared for. With luck, she would never see the pirate again.

Sun was setting now, as Miranda gazed absently at the sky. The sea breeze chilled her wet skin but the sound of the waves soothed her. Solid ground felt wrong--she'd been at sea so long she'd forgotten how to balance on an unmoving earth.

Part of her was aching to run the short distance now back to her home, but the other part wanted nothing to do with Port Royal. She didn't know what she'd do in such a wholly . . . _proper_ town. Granted, she had tried to maintain etiquette and civility through her trials, but knowing that her manners were not expected had been oddly liberating.

Darkness fell, but still Miranda sat thoughtfully by the tide. She watched the moon rise and counted the stars in the velvety sea overhead. She tried focusing her thoughts but found them too nebulous to organize or even consider for too long before her mind leapt to something else. Much to her later surprise, Miranda fell asleep to the sound of the rushing waves and the distant church bells of town.

She was rudely woken by the waves rippling over her as the night progressed. The tide had risen and froze her skin, already cold from the night-chilled wind. Miranda stammered to her feet, squinting in the dark as she made her way towards town. Soaked and half-asleep was not the way she planned on making her grand entrance, but when she finally reached the familiar doors of her parents' house and realized that with the doors bolted she had no way of entry, she decided to sleep on the doormat and wait for the sun to rise.

/\

"Come now, Joseph," Mrs. Abigail Potter scolded, patting her hip sternly as the thirteen year old boy hastened his pace to keep up with her and her husband. Hired hands just weren't as attentive as they used to be. Too much daydreaming, in Mrs. Potter's opinion. She gripped the lead of the donkey's bit tighter, yanking the beast and the cart it was hauling forward.

Every morning the three took the same path to market. Every morning Joseph lagged behind as they neared the Swann mansion. Mrs. Potter knew he was hoping to catch a glance of the governor's daughter, Lizzie. She was a pretty young thing, but much too good for the likes of a hired hand.

Past the Swann residence was Lord Thistlewicket's decadent, four-storied home. Everyone knew the old man was mad. Mrs. Potter craned her neck to see if she could see him at his window. He liked to stare out and spy on people. Nasty, nosey habit-- Mrs. Potter wouldn't stand for it.

As she neared the Farthing's stately home, she caught sight of something by the door. She shoved the lead in Mr. Potter's hand and hurried curiously forward. It was a girl!

"Mercy, Mr. Potter," she exclaimed, pointing. "The old colonel has a girl asleep on his front door!" Her husband shrugged noncommittally.

"Let me go wake the poor thing and see why she's there," she said, although her request was more of a statement as she marched up the walk to the door and did exactly that.

The girl was huddled in a tight ball, tangled, damp hair covering her face. Her clothes were positively appalling; to say they were rags would be too kind of words. The hem of her dress was ripped to her knee, and Mrs. Potter clucked at the indecency, but also noted the girl's legs were heavily scarred and pink with new skin. What had this child been through?

Mrs. Potter knelt down and prodded the girl with plump finger. The girl stirred and then snapped her eyes open.

"Great heavens!" Mrs. Potter exclaimed as the girl tossed her matted hair behind her back. Her face was familiar--it was the colonel's daughter who disappeared so many weeks ago.

"You're the Farthing girl, aren't you, child?"

Seeing Mrs. Potter's disapproving stare, the girl tugged in vain at the fabric in her skirts to cover her legs, but settled for curing her legs up beneath her. Mrs. Potter stood and brushed her hands off on her hips and lowered a hand to help the girl up.

Mrs. Potter noticed the girl felt unhealthily light as she allowed herself to be pulled onto her feet. Perhaps she'd been caught and sold as a slave. Perhaps she'd run away from home and got lost. Perhaps she'd eloped and been deserted. Perhaps . . .

Shaking her head with amusement, Mrs. Potter knocked heavily on the door. In a few moments one was swung open and a young maid faced the two, surprise clearly etched on her face.

"I found the poor dear and recognized her as the colonel's daughter," Mrs. Potter explained grandly. The maid peered at the girl, and whispered, "Miranda?"

The girl jerked and looked up for the first time, catching sight o the maid. She smiled humorlessly. "Hello, Colette."

/\

It was worse than Miranda could have possibly imagined.

As delighted as she was to see her parents again, their own pleasure to see her was quickly turned to fear that she would disappear again, and thus became an overly-protective love.

For the first week of her return she was not allowed to leave her room. Her parents' insisted that she shouldn't walk until her legs were fully healed, even though the town doctor, Dr. Murtogg, had pronounced her legs nearly healed upon examination the first day she'd returned. The second week she was allowed outside of her room, but could not leave the house. This time was spent in painful boredom as her mother fawned over her and stuffed her with food and over-cautionary maintenance.

It wasn't until the third week that life became truly unbearable however, and when Miranda found herself at the dinner table with both parents in the middle of the day, she knew something awful was about to happen.

Her father never came home midday.

"Miranda, darling," her mother began anxiously, taking a sip of tea and glancing at her husband. "Your father and I have some wonderful news for you."

Miranda set the biscuit on the delicately-painted china plate and looked up warily.

"First we'd like to apologize for how protective we've been," her father began sincerely. "These past few weeks can't have been easy on you, but everything we've done we've done out of love."

"When you disappeared the second time, we thought . . . we thought . . ." Mrs. Farthing hiccuped, and bit her trembling lip.

"We didn't want to lose another child to the sea," Miranda's father finished for her. Miranda nodded wordlessly, still very aware the worst had not been said yet.

"Now that you are twenty," Col. Farthing began, "it's time we move the responsibility of protecting you from your mother and me to your husband."

Fiery ice clutched Miranda's heart at those words, and she looked up in shock.

"Antony Murtogg is a good man," her mother pressed gently. "He came round the other day once he found out you had returned and asked your father for you hand."

"Antony?" The name sounded unfamiliar on Miranda's lips even as the face of her friend floated behind her eyes.

"The wedding is to be in three weeks," her father announced. "I daresay Antony will go through the formalities of proposing this evening when he comes by for dinner."

Miranda said nothing. Antony was her closest friend--would such a marriage be so terrible? He was forgetful and lacked great intelligence, but he was a good man. He was kind and loyal, loving, gentle. Good traits in any man.

She hardly noticed as her parents made to leave the room. Her mother slipped into the kitchen, while her father stopped in the doorway and turned back towards her.

"And Miranda," he started, jerking her from her revery. "When he asks, your answer will be yes."

Antony was a good man, but Miranda could never imagine him pulling her contollingly to his chest as his lips sought hers in fiery passion.


	15. Locked

**A/N: **_So_ sorry it took so long to post this chapter, and another apology for it being short. It's been a hectic few months, but I promise, the next chapter will be up in a much shorter amount of time than it took this one. Enjoy, and don't forget to review!

**Chapter Fifteen**

The cool, tangy breeze coursed through Miranda's hair and tugged at her skirts. The sun was burnishing the golden sky and melting the watery horizon as it fell. Somewhere, a bird sang a trill of lovely innocence to the harmony of the beating waves below the cliff. Whether meditated or sheer luck, Antony had picked the perfect setting. He looked hopefully up at her as he knelt on one knee, her left hand clasped in both his. He needed an answer.

Miranda looked to the sea that held so many memories she wished she could abandon. Barbossa was gone. She'd escaped him, and now she'd never fall prey to his actions ever again. Antony was here. He sought her out and promised her a life of security and happiness.

"Yes," she blurted, forcing thoughts from her heart. A good, solid answer to banish her wicked daydreams. She needed a gentleman to have her. A thoughtful, society-approved gentleman.

Upon hearing her answer, Antony leapt to his feet and enveloped her in a hug. Miranda returned the the gesture as sincerely as her distracted mind could, wondering if this was something she would soon regret.

Preparations for the wedding began almost immediately. As prominent members of the Port Royal society, the Farthings were expected to host a marvelous rehearsal dinner that would be the social event of the season. Mrs. Farthing began planning this gala to be held at the governor's mansion; Gov. Swann was a dear friend of Colonel Farthing, and delighted to host such a special occasion.

For the most part Miranda stayed far away from her parents and the details of her future. She found she could grasp the idea of marrying Antony when she wasn't looking at laces to hem her veil and the packages that began pouring in from the entire town wishing her a happy marriage.

Antony visited her daily and escorted her on walks down to the shore--the only place she ever wanted to go. She would step out of her slippers and wade into the water, feeling the waves lap at her ankles and tugging her towards the ocean. Gentle but firm, reminding her of the hands of a man she ought to forget. Antony would join her, slipping his hand into hers as they stood silently in the shallows of the sea.

Miranda knew he didn't understand what the ocean meant to her, but she knew he realized it was important. Moments such as these convinced her she could live happily with the man by her side.

On one such evening about a week before the wedding Antony finally spoke during their walk to the sea.

"You're not the same anymore," he said as she joined her in the waves. Miranda turned to face him and he instantly darkened and stammered, "I mean, you've changed a bit since you've been gone."

Miranda smiled. "Being abducted by pirates will do that to you."

"It's not that I don't like the change," Antony continued as he tried to correct himself, but eloquence was never his skill. "I've always loved you, Miranda. I don't think I can ever change that part of me, and I don't think you changing will ever change my mind . . . That is . . . " he trailed off, frowning in thought. Miranda gave him time and waited.

"I used to think," he started again slowly, "that if I ever proposed, you'd say yes."

"I did, you ninny," Miranda laughed gently, then added, "I'm sorry. Continue."

"I guess what I'm trying to say," Antony finished uncertainly, "is that I don't know if I'm the one for you anymore. I feel like there's something between us since you've come back."

Miranda clenched her jaw; he'd said exactly what she'd been afraid he'd say. He'd realized her change, as any good fiancee would, and was confronting her. She wished she'd prepared some sort of reassurance, but her words become just as broken and confused as Antony's.

"I'm always changing," she replied unevenly. "And so are you. But what happened to me isn't going to ruin things for us. It's nothing that time spent together won't fix."

Antony did not look convinced.

"It's not too late, you know," he began, his voice trembling. "You can call everything off. Or I can. I just want you to be happy."

Miranda turned her gaze back to the sea. From across the bay she could hear the soft creaking of the docked ships. The salty air stung her senses more powerfully than before. From the sunset, the moon began to gleam.

That chapter in her life was over.

She looked back at Antony. "I'm not going anywhere," she said firmly. "Especially not without you." She laughed. "You can't get rid of me that easily."

In a moment she'd been pulled to Antony and found her lips held by his. His hands locked her waist firmly to him, and she tasted sweet relief in his kiss. In seconds Antony seemed to realize what he'd done and quickly withdrew, reddening.

"I'm so sorry I . . . I let myself get carried away," he apologized, shrinking back. "I just . . . you saying that was exactly . . . exactly what I needed to hear." Miranda smiled and pounced on Antony, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Enough of formalities," she murmured into his neck. "Now." She looked up and grinned as his hopeful expression. "Where were we?"


	16. She Shows You Who You Truly Are

**Chapter Sixteen**

Since that evening on the beach Miranda began to feel much more comfortable with the idea of marrying Antony, and it wasn't until the day of the rehearsal that anything unusual happened. She had just finished afternoon tea with her mother when the doorbell rang. Being closer to the door, Miranda stood and opened it to find a tall, gangly man with a large hat covering one eye. His clothes were filthy and reeked of close and salty quarters. The scent was familiar.

"Yes?" She asked hesitantly. The man said nothing, but shoved a small wooden box at her with dirt-smeared hands, and then ran away.

"Miranda, who's at the door?" her mother called.

"No one." Miranda's mind was only on the box. She rushed upstairs to her room and closed her door firmly. Standing in the middle of the room, she pulled the bronze latch away and opened the box.

Inside was water. As Miranda stared at the contents in confusion, a breeze rustled through her open window and a briny, salty tang caught in her throat. Ocean water. She let go of the lid, and as it flipped back she saw elegant writing on the inside.

_She shows you who you truly are_

Weakly, Miranda set the box on her bedside table and collapsed on her bed. She'd been almost free of him. Being married to Antony would give her a new kind of protection, she just had to make it to tomorrow. Someone knocked on the door.

"Miranda, are you alright?"

"Yes, Mother," she replied, hugging her sides as she tried to banish thoughts of Barbossa. He was gone, he was gone, he was gone. He'd probably sent the box as a joke to make her uneasy. To keep her uneasy would probably amuse him; she should have seen it coming.

As she dressed for the rehearsal, she tried to keep herself distracted. But the airy, blue dress selected for her reminded her of the ocean swells, the pearls just made her think of other creatures that lived at sea, and the waves in which her hair was pressed reminded her of the tide. Just as she thought she'd drive herself mad, it was time to leave for the governor's mansion.

"Rehearsal dinner" seemed just an excuse for the wealth of Port Royal to have a social extravaganza, but Miranda didn't mind. She felt in no condition to deal with excessive attention.

Her mind was whirling as the orchestra began to play and Antony led her to the center of the ballroom. Her feet moved mechanically and her smile was forced. Every once in a while she thought she caught the scent of the ocean, but as quickly as it came, it disappeared. As Antony turned her she thought she heard a familiar, rough laugh, but shook the thought away. He would haunt her if she let him.

The dinner was marvelous. Her father made a toast to Miranda and Antony, and as the food dwindled, so did the guests. When the number depleted by half, Miranda was ready to sleep away her paranoia and stress. She excused herself from Antony's side at the table and headed for the balcony for fresh air, but as she was crossing the floor still occupied with dancers a hand gripped her arm. She turned, startled, to see an man with bright blue eyes and a neat brown and grey beard. He wore medals on his coat bearing the Portuguese crest, and a long, thin sword hung at his belt.

"Would you grant me the honor?" It was not a question.

Miranda found herself in his grasp as he began leading her in a waltz.

"And who are ye, Miss Farthin'?"

Miranda missed a step, but Barbossa held her easily over the floor before setting her back down on the next beginning count.

"Or are ye Mrs. Murrtogg yet?"

"No." Miranda's teeth were gritted so tightly she could barely breathe.

Barbossa laughed with obvious restraint. "Did ye like my present?"

"You have lovely handwriting," she replied curtly as he led her through a half turn and then spun her back to his arms. "Why are you here?"

"To claim what be rightf'ly mine," he answered easily, never taking his eyes off Miranda.

"Rightfully, Captain?"

"Aye," he agreed. "Ye yerself haggled the terms, remember? A crew harmed no further in exchange for yerself. And what's a man t'do when his pup runs away?"

"Get another one," Miranda growled. "I'm engaged to be married tomorrow."

"But until then," Barbossa whispered, pulling Miranda closer, "yer mine."

"Just wait until Antony--" Miranda started hotly, but Barbossa interrupted with amusement, raising his voice so all could hear.

"So the whelp's still around here, is he? I should think it be past his me see yer beau."

The room quieted, and Miranda felt instantly ashamed. Antony was nothing to be feared or respected by mere appearance, and she knew he must be worried. Barbossa would shame him and she didn't know how to stop him.

The captain tightened his grip on Miranda before casting her to the side and striding through the couples halted in mid-dance.

"Who be the unlucky man marrying the pirate's wench?"

"I."

Miranda shadowed Barbossa's steps until she saw the two men standing at a distance, facing each other. Antony was wary and his brow was puckered in anxiety. Barbossa stood amused.

"And ye think ye can handle this strumpet?" Barbossa laughed, seeing Miranda's approach, seizing her wrist and dragging her forward. Whispers echoed through the room as the remaining guests pushed closer to watch the spectacle.

"You'll not call her such names." Antony's voice quivered as he took a cautious step towards him.

"Ahh, but they be accurate," Barbossa rasped. Upon seeing Antony's confusion, he barked a laugh and added, "I reckon yer bride never told ye about her . . . misadventures."

"You horrid, word-twisting mon-" Miranda began, wrenching her hand in vain attempt to free herself, but Barbossa sent her to the ground with a jerk of his wrist.

"No, no, m'dear. It's not your time to talk," he growled, and glanced back at Antony. "Ye'll thank me for this later, boy. This wench be not yer type."

"That's not for you to decide," Antony retorted, some aggression showing through his fear and anxiety. As he said this he strode forward, but Barbossa anticipated his move. Without so much as a moment's hesitation, the captain withdrew his pistol and fired it easily into the advancing man's shoulder.

"Antony!" Miranda cried as she watched him crumple. She lunged toward him but Barbossa gripped her forearm in a bruisingly tight hold. Screams rang throughout the ballroom as guests panicked. In the chaos, Barbossa tightened his grip to the point Miranda felt he'd surely break her arm and started for the balcony. Tears springing to her eyes in pain and fear, she tripped after him.

"Let me-" she pleaded, but Barbossa whirled around and his expression caught her entirely off-guard. She'd seen several emotions cross over his face, but this was a new one. Pure, unfiltered fury contorted his face to make a sight more horrifying than when she'd seen his decayed, rotting skin. Her words froze in her throat and she stumbled to the ground.

"We've all missed ye back at the ship," he growled.


	17. Beyond the Certainty of the Rising Sun

Author's Note: Hey, it's been awhile. Sorry about that. I'll try to be more consistent about updating in the future. Much love!

**Chapter Seventeen**

Fisherman's Harbor had been abandoned for several years and the small populace that had lived there moved to Port Royal when the fish learned to avoid the small bay. It was the perfect location for small vessels to anchor, but the long trek to Port Royal often dissuaded traders and the like. And it was to this harbor Miranda knew Barbossa was leading her.

"You must let me go!" Miranda begged, falling to the ground in exhaustion. Blood wept from her legs from when Barbossa had half led, half dragged her through the underbrush of the forest behind the Swann manor.

The pirate's hand slipped from her wrist with ghost-like swiftness, and Miranda pulled her arm to her chest, rubbing where he had gripped so hard. Barbossa said nothing, and Miranda wondered what he was waiting for. Fear and despair formed a lump in her throat as she tried to form words.

"A horrid, word-twisting monster."

"Pardon?" the dark shape of Barbossa growled, looming closer. She could almost hear the smirk on his face.

"That's what I was saying," Miranda choked out, "before you shot my fiance. You cut my words off, then, but time hasn't changed their accuracy." She finished coldly, her strength returning as she reclaimed her breath and energy.

"He had it coming."

"Antony is a good man." Miranda clenched her teeth.

"A soft man," Barbossa countered with a snort.

"You had no right-" Miranda began, scrambling to her feet. In one movement Barbossa seized her by the shoulders and pushed her solidly against the tree she'd been resting near.

"You lis'en t'me, Miss Farthin'." His eyes gleamed vehemently and his face bore closer to hers. "You can claim all ye want that I did kidnap ye. You can argue yer innocence until the sharks be mermaids and the dead men dance, but when I let go of ye, you did'n run. And that, Miss Farthin, is more tellin' than any words you can say."

"I-"

But Barbossa cut her off again. "I wonder, Miss Farthin', if it's b'cause ye be ready fer another adventure with a gang of pirates. Married life would not suit ye."

Miranda said nothing, hating the grin that slowly twisted itself on Barbossa's lips as the silence continued and confirmed the truth in his words.

"Why did you come?" she finally asked, looking at him. The night sky was flooded with clouds, but she could see a gleam in Barbossa's eyes.

"I've already told you," Barbossa replied. "Sev'ral times in sev'ral ways. I can't help that yer the dullest rock that's ever wrecked me." He turned and took a few steps away. Miranda stepped forward cautiously, not sure how to put her next words.

"I haven't been the same since I returned to Port Royal. I haven't been able to forget . . ." she faltered, but pushed on. ". . .forget how much my life has changed since you first held me prisoner. I can't enjoy needlepoint or lessons. I can't tolerate the company of my mother and father or girls from town. The motions and manners of everyone seems unwelcoming and fake." Barbossa looked over his shoulder at her, his eyes piercing into hers. "I can't go back to the way things were," Miranda finished feebly.

"And ye blame me," Barbossa murmured, as though thinking aloud.

"You've turned my world inside out," Miranda explained helplessly. "I don't even know if I-"

Her words were cut off with a sharp gasp that she recognized as her own, for as she spoke the clouds slipped away from the moon, and Barbossa stood in his ragged, rotting form. Although the memory of the last occasion she'd seen him as such had been burned into her mind, seeing it again so unexpectedly was suddenly much, much worse.

For a brief moment the pirate did not seem to realize why she'd reacted the way she did. Then understanding flashed across the remaining tendons and muscles of his face. Miranda forced herself to look calm, but she knew no expression she could make or words she could say could undo the first gasp of horror she'd allowed.

Barbossa looked down at a decayed hand, curling and uncurling his flesh-eaten fingers.

"Miss Farthin', I am a monster," he breathed, his voice rasped and raw from rotten vocal cords. "But I'll be damned to Jones' locker if I let ye b'come one too."

"I don't-" Miranda began, confused, but he continued as if she hadn't spoke. "Now go, Miss Farthin'. Ye'll not b'long with the likes of me."

In the distance Miranda could hear the soft sighing of the ocean waves breaking on rocks. The noise beckoned her and filled her with longing to go to it. To wade in the gentle tide, to trust the white-tipped swells and delight in the salty tang that caught the breeze. The ocean did reveal one's true self. Miranda knew now with more certainty than she'd known anything else in her entire life. Beyond mathmatics and laws, beyond the certainty of the rising sun, Miranda knew her path.

"No."

It seemed like such a weak word as it passed over her lips, but it was strong enough to bring Barbossa around to face her fully.

"No?"

"I'm not leaving." Miranda collapsed against the tree as the weight of her own words struck her. Barbossa said nothing, but she felt his piercing gaze on her face. "I can't go back to the way things were," she repeated. "I can't go back."

"An' why would tha' be?" A new tone had caught in Barbossa's voice. Miranda pushed herself from the trunk of the tree and stepped towards his ragged, skeletal frame. She reached forward and took one of his cold, decayed hands in hers.

"Because I belong with you."


	18. Forever

Chapter Eighteen

_Because I belong with you._

Although Miranda had had no idea what reaction her bold statement might have elicited from the pirate, this was certainly not one of them. This was worse than being locked in the brig, worse than the protectiveness of her parents, worse than the pain of being devoured by hungry flames. She still remembered his face as she's said those words. His lidless eyes, boring into hers, the remaining muscles of his face, still. Nothing. Besides shaking his hand from her grasp, he had given no clear reaction. Only turned, and walked away.

Typical. Typical of a pirate to to show all the emotion in the world, all the rotten, heathen expressions and words that have been invented when the situation is within their control. Now it was all Miranda could do to convince herself he'd even heard her words. She wasn't sure which was worse: the embarrassing, prideless vulnerability of her words falling on deaf ears, or simply being ignored.

Miranda crumpled to the ground as she watched him go. Her heart felt as it were ripped with a frozen dagger as hot tears rose in her eyes. Abandoning all sense of shame, she forced herself to stand and pursue him. She knew he must have heard her footsteps, but he made no move to acknowledge her; he only continued on his path towards the ocean.

Her life suddenly seemed as if it had all once been a fine tapestry that was now only threads, and she didn't know how it had unraveled. Her thoughts were equally broken as she tried to piece together how she had reached this critical moment. She couldn't understand her feelings for this man; she often felt intrigued and drawn to his unpredictable behavior, other times she felt only a great desire to save him from the misery with which the curse overwhelmed him. And then there were the completely inappropriate thoughts she had when his lips had touched hers. She wondered how this man could ruin her wedding rehearsal by shooting her fiance, kidnap her, and then ignore her, and what he could possibly be thinking as she followed his silent form across the field.

"Damnit, Barbossa," Miranda swore, "it's about time one of us swallowed our pride and figured this mess out. I'm doing the best I can, but I need your help."

Nothing. The sound of the crashing waves grew louder, and Miranda caught sight of the ocean, black as it reflected the hazy heavens above. The familiar comfort of the briny wind caught in her throat, and part of her almost thought to smile. She could see the yellow light of the Black Pearl as it waited in the harbor, bobbing placidly atop the gentle waves.

As she followed him to the beach, she saw a dark shape by the water's edge that turned out to be the long-legged pirate sitting on the edge of a small skiff dragged onto the sand. His dark form rose as Barbossa neared him, and Miranda could hear the confusion in his voice as he spoke.

"Uh, cap'n, is she comin' wif us?"

It was some consolation to Miranda that she wasn't the only one he ignored. Without a sound, Barbossa slipped easily into the small boat, and Ragetti squinted his eyes to see better in the dark to look at her.

"Miss?"

Miranda too ignored him, and also jumped into the boat. "Row," was the only word she heard herself say.

Ragetti scratched his head before rushing the boat into the waves and hopping aboard. The sound of the oars crashing into the water set a rhythm to the painful silence that hung over the three as they left the shore. Perhaps oblivious or disinterested in the situation, Ragetti began humming a few off-key notes before sensing his musical abilities were unwelcome. A quavering note slipped back to silence, and he focused on rowing.

Barbossa was out of the boat before Ragetti could tie it off, and Miranda was right behind him. Decency be damned, the lanky pirate could peer up her skirts for all she cared, she needed to resolve this silence. She gave one glance down at the water before looking back up the jacob's ladder, and controlled herself. The moon had once again slipped from its thick shrouds, and the man above her was once again a rotting, tattered silhouette. She bit her lip, and quickened her climb up the wet and swollen rope ladder.

The skeletal crew watched their arrival with curious eyes, but silence followed in Barbossa's wake. He went to the door of his private quarters, turned the key he had withdrawn from his tattered coat pocket, and opened the door. The eyes within his rotten sockets swiveled toward Miranda, and one decayed hand gestured her inside.

The room felt cold to her, its clammy fingers pressing over her face and throat. She shivered once and twisted the wick of the oil lamp to brighten the room. She didn't turn as she heard the door slam behind her, or even as she noted the grinding of the key locking her in.

"M'randa." The unfamiliar title caught her off guard, and she spun around. Barbossa was flesh again. He glanced at his hand carelessly, but Miranda knew he was checking that he was human again. He looked at her, his blue eyes boring into her own as she met them.

Miranda felt she'd said her piece already; it was his turn. Planting her hands on her hips, she cocked her head and waited for him to speak.

"Ye just can' let me be the monster, can ye, Miss Farthin'." It wasn't a question. Confused, Miranda let her hands fall to her side as she took a step away from him. His eyes had grown bright with anger, and she had learned to be wary of his strike.

"You're not wholly-" she began, but the crack of his fist connecting to the dark-paneled wall silenced her.

"I _am,_ Miss Farthin', an' I never met a livin' soul who could convince me otherwi-"

"Let me-" Whether it was her interruption or her words, she didn't know, but Miranda cowered at his raised palm. Instead he struck the window behind her, and shards of glass rained down on her head as she yanked his arm down with both hands.

"Stop." She felt his muscles in his arm allow her to bring his arm to his side. His eyes still blazed.

"You are foul," Miranda began, knowing she had his attention. "You are twisted and corrupt. There have been times I've cursed your name and hated the thought of you." His wrist was still held in both her hands, and she now brought his hand to her face.

"But I know somewhere in your heart is good, I've seen it. That's the part I love, and I'll tolerate the rest of you for that small piece, if you'll give it to me."

Barbossa freed his hand easily from her grasp and traced it past her jawline, over her ear, and through her hair to rest powerfully but gently around the back of her neck. His other arm slid from her shoulder to rest on the small of her back, and he pulled her close. Miranda smiled as he bent forward to kiss the curve of her neck, his breath was warm on her skin as he spoke.

"Miss Farthin', ye'll keep that piece to yerself."

"Forever," she assured him with a whisper, and bent her head to meet her lips with his.


	19. A Bullet Burning

**Chapter Nineteen**

**A Bullet Burning**

Miranda opened her eyes to the darkness surrounding her. She blinked several times-her eyelids felt raw from crying. Had she been asleep, dreaming events of her past? Or merely so lost in memory that it felt almost real?

She drew in a deep, shaky breath, steeling herself for the task ahead of her. She gripped the cold, stiff wrists of the man she had once loved and began dragging him across the mounds of coins, jewelry, and other treasures the cave held. The ground was slippery; her bare feet were numb with cold from the seawater, and she fell several times into the shallow water. Gold plates and candlesticks rudely met her backside and hands as she tried to catch herself, but pain was something she was too used to to be bothered.

After dragging the body to her boat, she collapsed; exhaustion and grief forbidding her to continue. She tucked her legs to her chest and rested her head on her knees as she waited for the dawn.

/\

Miranda sat across the table from him, curling her legs up as she ate. Barbossa watched silently for a moment, opened his mouth, and then shut it again as if rethinking the words he wanted to say.

"What's bothering you?" It was a bold question; the captain had been curt to his crew the entire day and had hardly spoken a word to her.

"'Tis one thing," he began, his voice low and controlled. Miranda set down her roll and waited for him to continue. "To suffer this curse with a ship full o' those who also do. 'Tis another entirely to sit here as you eat and savor this food we only keep because of you."

"I'm sorry," Miranda began, and she meant it. She had wondered often in her first week of being aboard if he was now constantly reminded of his curse by her presence.

Barbossa seized an apple from a bowl on the table, his knuckles white as he held it. "Did you know that an apple was the first food I tried after the curse? That was when I first discovered I couldn' taste anything." He turned the fruit slowly in his hand before he let it fall to the floor. "And d'you know that an apple is the one thing I miss the most."

"Yes," Miranda agreed quietly, remembering a conversation they had had what seemed like ages ago. This must not have been what he wanted to hear, for Barbossa stood up so quickly his chair toppled behind him. In one liquid movement he had overturned the table; food spilled or tumbled across the floor. Miranda curled up tighter in her chair and looked up at him in shock and fear.

Barbossa stood very still, staring hard at her. She saw the muscles in his forearm contract as he tightened and untightened his fists. His chest rose and fell heavily out of habit rather than necessity.

Slowly and cautiously, Miranda rose from her chair, dipping her head as she approached him. She raised a hand to place on his cheek and tried to smile up at him, but she could feel the corners of her lips twitching from worry and doubt. Barbossa jerked his head away from her touch, his eyes burning fiercely.

"Miss Farthin', I'll have none of yer _pity_." He spat the word out with a snarl.

"I'm sorry, I-"

"Go." He said the single word quietly, his voice shaking as he suppressed himself. Miranda took a step back, willing the tears in her eyes to stay until she turned her back to him. She slipped from the room and onto the deck, pressing her fingertips to her eyes to catch the tears. She looked down as she felt the eyes of the crew on her as she crossed the deck and slipped down the ladder to the cargo hold. She wove around the crates and chests until she reached the door to the brig and sat down heavily on the steps leading down to the narrow row of cells.

She was a fool to have thought Barbossa would change just for her. She knew his character, his moods. Why had she thought everything would be perfect once she returned to the ship? It was true he was kind to her, but against his temper she was powerless. A flicker of doubt crept into her mind as she wondered if she had made a mistake. She grabbed her head with both hands in an attempt to control her thoughts. She had been captured several times, but this time she had come willingly. _This is what you wanted_, she reminded herself. The sea, freedom, _him_.

She had promised to take his temper in exchange for his love, which was an easy enough thing to say. It was an entirely different thing to do.

Miranda lifted her head, thinking hard. The best way to manage his temper was to avoid provocation. Food caused him to think of what he was missing, ergo she would eat in private. She knew feeling the wind toss her hair caused her to smile, so she would keep her face blank. His touch made her face flush, but she didn't want him to think she wasn't happy with his contact. That would stay.

She looked out the small porthole to see the sun as it slowly slipped below the darkening horizon.

/\

Miranda lifted her head as the golden light of dawn broke over her weary limbs. Was she sitting on the steps in the brig, or at the mouth of the cave in Isle de Muerta? She looked down to see Barbossa's body cruelly revealed in the morning light, and bit back a sob. She took his cold hand in hers and held it for a moment. She tried not to look at the wound, but found her eyes almost magnetically drawn to the blood stain that covered his white tunic and his throat. She wondered who had had been the man to shoot him, and what Barbossa had done to cause this man to want to kill him.

Perhaps better than anyone else, she knew he was no saint. As a pirate he had his enemies, even if he never spoke of them. Miranda tried to stop herself from creating the scene of what might have happened. When she closed her eyes all she could see was a bullet burning through the air before it burrowed into the captain's heart. What were his last words?

_A bullet burning through the air_. The concept rapped on Miranda's mind as if trying to remind her of something, but all she could think of was that infuriating Jack Sparrow and his ridiculous one bullet he had had to retrieve from the witch's house.

_The witch_. Miranda had given Tia Dalma very little thought since her encounter with the woman, but all of a sudden the woman's words enveloped Miranda like water and she felt as if she were drowning in an overwhelming onslaught of memories.

_I seen you before? Latah, den. I see you latah . . . . It is so good t'see you happy. I d'not yearn for da next time you come. Sad people makeh me sad . . . . When you need sometin' done-sometin' big-come back to me . . ._

She could see Tia's eyes boring into hers as she recalled the words and a cold wave swept through her body. She didn't know what Tia's limits were, but a foolish hope rose in her heart that perhaps Tia could bring Barbossa back.

Her feet were clumsy and bruised as she scrambled to stand. Her mind was going almost too fast to keep up with. She had to return to Tia. She'd need her own ship to get there, and for that she'd need a small crew.

Her heart sank. No sailor would allow her to captain a ship. Superstition had a better hold on most pirates than reason; she'd been lucky enough to get the captain she had to even accept her money and take her to the Isle de Muerta on his way to and from a nearby island.

When the idea struck her, Miranda almost laughed at how easy the answer was. The only thing that men understand, that can overrule superstition was gold, and she was sitting at the mouth of a cave filled with riches.

She looked toward the horizon. Craddock, the pirate who'd allowed her aboard his ship for an indecent sum, had told her if she wasn't where he'd told her to be at noon he'd sail right on by the island.

Dreading her next task, Miranda drew in a deep breath of resolve, and seized the body under the arms. She pulled it over to the small skiff. Climbing in first, she then drug the body into the small boat.

When she returned to the boat from the cave, her small bag was heavy with reales, sovereigns, crowns, and even a few gems. She untied the skiff and began rowing away from the island.

/\

Miranda watched the island slowly shrink as Pintel rowed the skiff towards the _Pearl. _In her hand she held three of the cursed coin and delight filled her heart. She looked up to the ship and saw Barbossa standing at the wheel. She knew he would be sour that her plan had worked better to retrieve the coins, but she didn't care. She hoped that this would perhaps show him that there needn't be a trail a blood from the coins to his collection.

She had managed to get the coins with civilized bartering and coaxing with the gentleman, and Barbossa need never know she had to use some flirting as well. When the boat bumped gently against the ship Miranda dropped the coins into her pocket and nimbly scaled the ladder. She heard Pintel whistle as he climbed up behind her, but she merely laughed and threw her leg over the railto step lightly onto the deck.

She hurried up the ladder to the stern and greeted Barbossa with a victorious, slightly smug smile.

"It worked, did it?" He asked gruffly, but his eyes were bright.

"Perfectly." Miranda dropped the coins into his outstretched hand. "Just like I told you it would. The man just needed something in return."

"Ah, _tradin'._" Barbossa struck his forehead with his free palm. "I don' know why we never tried _that_. We be pirates, darlin'. We _take_ what we want." With this he pulled her into a hard, brief kiss. The men about him laughed. Barbossa released her and continued, "Now if yeh be wantin' another try at this, yeh can't be tradin' or you'll give us a soft name."

"It's still possible to find a medium between killing and trading, you know." Miranda said it lightly enough, but there was no amusement in her voice.

"Aye." Barbossa didn't challenge this. A sudden heaviness had taken the conversation with her words. The weight seemed to hit Miranda unexpectedly, and she was suddenly out of breath.

"I'm thirsty," she said almost apologetically, and turned to leave. She knew he would follow, but didn't want to have the conversation in front of the other men. She went to Barbossa's quarters and sat at the table.

Barbossa joined her shortly. He stood in the doorway, his hat in one hand as he looked at her.

"I'm not mad at you-"

"Ye have ev'ry right to be."

"And I was. Remember?"

A humorless laugh escaped the captain's lips. "Vividly."

Miranda stood slowly, her face was relaxed, emotionless. "Quentin's gone. I can't change that. But I've forgiven you for his death."

"Why?" Barbossa drew closer, his face incredulous.

"Because you forgive the people you love."


	20. Impossible

A/N: Hi everyone! I guess welcome back to my story, I'm so glad you've been reading it. I was on hiatus, mainly because getting married and buying our first house . . . well, it takes a lot out of you. Anyway, I received lovely reviews from Orchidya and PanicSweetKiss that encouraged me so much in my writer's slump (I go through several a year). I have new direction now, or rather, established direction. Let's do this!

**Chapter Twenty**

_You forgive the people you love._

Miranda felt as if she'd just uttered the words as she opened her eyes; she could still hear the echo of her voice on the wind. She looked up to see the great shadow of a ship towering over her, the letters spelling out _The Eden_ glinting gold from the afternoon sun.

She closed her eyes again, as if shutting them would shut out reality and return her to her memories.

"You comin', Missy?" A voice called from above. Miranda shook herself from her mood and glanced up at the silhouette leaning over the railing.

"Yes, but I need help."

"That'll be an extra charge-even more depending how-" the man stopped suddenly. "If that be a dead man you can dump him right now, Missy. We won't be havin' a woman _and_ a corpse on this ship-she'll sink for sure."

Miranda gritted her teeth and replied, "You'll be handsomely compensated, I assure you."

"I'll have to speak with the captain." The man disappeared and returned shortly with Craddock, a tall, angular man with red-gray hair. He did not look pleased, but Miranda ignored his glare.

"How much will I need to pay you to compromise your ship's well-being?" The sarcasm was lost on the captain and he was quiet for a moment.

"Double, if nothin' 'appens. Triple if one man falls ill or a single scratch is found on this ship."

"Done."

In the end Barbossa's body was wrapped in a section of an old sail and hoisted onto the main deck. It was then gingerly deposited at the farthest cell of the brig with a thick line of chalk surrounding it in a badly drawn circle. "To keep the demons contained," one sailor had suggested to Miranda as she watched.

Miranda found Craddock at the wheel and approached him. His face darkened at her advance.

"What now? You want to throw me cat overboard? Or perhaps merely crack the ship's bell?"

Miranda laughed. "No, I'm through cursing. I just have a question you may or may not know the answer to."

The captain rumbled a throaty sigh of resignation, but never looked at her.

"Have you come across a Jack Sparrow recently?"

The man's face changed slightly. He lifted an eyebrow at her and smirked. "I should 'ave known ye were one of 'is girls."

"Not even a little," Miranda hastily defended herself. "No. Never. I just need his help on a certain thing."

Craddock winked. "I'll bet ye do."

Miranda sighed. "Do you know where he might be or not?"

Spinning the wheel heavily to the left, Craddock exhaled, looking deep in thought. "Trinidad. Maybe. I 'ear 'e got 'imself the _Black Pearl_. Played four-'and stud with 'im several weeks ago-said 'e was on the run from the British Navy. Aye," he added after a moment. "Try Trinidad first. Port of Spain. Someone there is bound to know where 'e 'eaded next."

"I don't suppose you're headed in that direction, Captain?"

Craddock smiled, and reached behind Miranda's head. A gold coin was in his hand as if he'd drawn it from thin air, and he replied, "For the right price, I could be."

/\

The golden light of morning warmed Miranda's face as she rolled on her side to look at Barbossa. The white sand gave pleasantly under her weight as she smiled at his still form. He sat quietly, almost meditatively, watching the tide crest and dip against the glimmering sand.

There wasn't a sound but the ocean and the wind, and Miranda wondered if heaven was anything like this.

"I left a man to die on this island." Barbossa's voice cut through the air. By this time Miranda knew he didn't say it to impress or frighten her. He often spoke his mind for the simple reason of letting her discover a deeper part of him.

"What happened?"

"I was too rash. Too clumsy with greed." He was quiet for several moments. As Miranda opened her mouth to coax more from him, he continued. "He was my captain, an' I his first mate. He showed me a map he had leadin' to a vast amount of gold. Thoughtless and determined, I stole the map an' convinced the crew to rebel against him. One less to share the gold. We marooned him here, an' the treasure we found be the cursed gold."

"And he died here?" The wind became a little too cold for comfort and Miranda drew herself up into a ball.

"Per'aps. I gave 'im a gun with a single shot to end it quickly, if he chose. He was a resourceful scrap of a man, though, an' as hell-bent on livin' as a sea rat. T'wouldn't surprise me if he made it off."

Almost to herself, Miranda found herself saying, "I hope so." The wind died down and the warmth in her limbs returned. She stretched out again and rolled on her back. She felt Barbossa's hand trace over her palm lightly and she stretched her fingers to to his, entwining them together almost in a promise.

/\

Miranda bit back a scream as she realized she was holding Barbossa's cold, stiff hand in hers. She didn't remember returning to the brig, but she was there, lying on her back beside the body. Frightened, she scurried on her hands and knees away from the cell and landed heavily on the floor some yards away.

Breathing hard, she tried to recall all she could. She remembered speaking with Craddock about Jack Sparrow's whereabouts, and then . . . _what_? She had stood by the railing, enjoying the sun, and then she was here.

_No_. She had been remembering a time she had shared with Barbossa on a beach as the crew restocked their rum and mead. She looked at the body and felt her stomach contract at the sharp juxtaposition, and swallowed hard the bile that had risen in her throat. Why had it become so difficult for her mind to differentiate memories from reality?

A cold thought trickled into the back of her mind that she immediately dismissed as impossible. She was sleep-deprived, and she'd heard of stranger stories happening to those that went without sleep.

/\

The crew insisted that Miranda be the only other occupant in the skiff with the body to row ashore when they'd reached Trinidad. Terrible bad luck to step on shore before the dead were laid upon it. Miranda paid her dues to the captain, which had become triple the original cost but she was highly suspicious of the cabin boy who only claimed to have a cough. Had her funds been limited, she would have put up a fight, but as it was, she still had plenty of money to hire a ship and its crew.

After hiding Barbossa's body amongst the high grasses that grew beyond the sand, Miranda set out towards Port of Spain. Her immediate plan of action was to acquire a coffin to keep Barbossa in, the next was to search every inn, market, and tavern for word of Jack Sparrow. She didn't know how to get to the island where Tia Dalma lived, and as much as she dreaded it, she'd resigned herself to the idea of seeking his help once more.

The coffin was an easy enough task, even if the carpenter looked oddly at her when she asked for a set of wheels at the bottom and a rope handle at the top for transportation. A few extra coins from her bag were enough to have the modified coffin ready by then end of the day. She thanked the man and began her search for Jack Sparrow.

The barman at _The_ _Lovely Sera_ spoke very little understandable English but did not recognize the name Jack Sparrow. A few woman on the street knew him well, but hadn't seen him for years. The innkeeper of _Jameson and Red's_ was so upset to hear his name that Miranda had to duck as his gestured violently to several chairs and a table that lay in a broken pile in the far corner, but he didn't know where the captain would be.

By the end of the day Miranda knew no more than she had of the elusive man's whereabouts. Head down, she trudged down the deserted road by the town hall towards the carpenter's shop when she heard someone hissing at her.

She looked around wildly to locate the source, but saw no one in sight.

"_Psst. _Down a bit," the voice suggested. Miranda glanced by the bottom of the building and noticed that a barred window even to ground must be from where the voice was coming. Two hands wrapped around the bars as if the person had to hoist himself up to see properly. The face that came into view caused Miranda to almost fall back in amazement.

"Jack Sparrow!" She exclaimed, dropping to her knees.

"It's _Captain_ Jack Sparrow, actually. And do I know you?"

"It's Miranda," she hissed angrily. "You almost ate me once, and more recently, you made me swim to Port Royal."

The man threw his head back in a bark of laughter, as if just remembering. "Of course. I knew you looked familiar, it was just a matter of remembering. When you've seen as many women as I have, you-"

"I've been looking everywhere for you," Miranda interrupted. Jack regarded her seriously for a moment, and then grinned.

"Well, darling," he laughed again. "Clearly not _everywhere._ But how may I be of service?"

"I need to you to tell me how to get to the island where Tia Dalma lives."

Jack sighed heavily, dramatically. "I wish I could, love, but if I'm to help you, I think it's only fair that you help me, and I am in _desperate_ need of rum. Oh," he added after a moment, "and I'll need you to help me break out of here."

"No. You probably deserve to be here."

"That's just the rub, though, darling. I don't this time."

Miranda sat back on her heels and looked hard at him. "Really?" But it was more of a challenge than a question.

"Honest. Wrong place at the wrong time sort of thing."

"Did it have anything to do with broken chairs and an angry bartender?"

Jack chewed on his lip, his eyes thoughtful. "Might've."

"The rum I can get you, but I'm not helping you escape."

"Then you'll never find dear Tia." It was almost sing-song the way he said it and Miranda felt her brows furrow together almost reflexively. "I don't need you to do much, love. I could get out of here on my own if it weren't for one suspecting guard."

Miranda stood and brushed off her skirt. "I have things to do now. I'll come back tomorrow."

A broad smile drew across Jack's face as he looked up at her. "Perfect. He'll never expect a beak-out during visiting hours."

Miranda knelt again. "I'll need your word that you will help me if I help you first."

Jack bowed his head solemnly, and agreed, "Promise."

"Whatever you're planning," she said softly but with power, "will not involve anyone dying, and I won't be any more involved than an innocent bystander who might have said or done something at just the opportune moment. Are we clear, Captain?"

"You know, love, for keeping pirate comapny so much, you really are a wet blanket," Jack commented. He glanced at her expression, and hastily added, "And we're clear."

"Is there anything you need me to bring tomorrow or a certain time that's best?"

"Rum. Definitely rum." He paused, thinking. "Wear your hair up and your dress low. And bring matches. Whenever."

"Wonderful," she replied drily. "'Til tomorrow, then." She straightened up again and as she was walking away, Jack called to her.

"Oh, and one more thing, love." Miranda turned back to him expectantly. "Make sure you have a way for us to leave quickly. Out of town or off the island, either one would be just peachy."

"You don't ask a lot, do you, Jack?"

He smirked, shaking his head. "S'not in my nature, darling."


	21. Desperate

**Chapter Twenty-One**

**Desperate**

Miranda found herself in a dress she would never wear if the circumstances were different. The neckline was cut lower than she thought possible and the shoulder straps, in contrast to the bodice, were far too loose to rest over her collar bone and instead fell wantonly over her shoulders. Her hair she piled high on her head with a few stray tendrils curled about her face and neck. The lipstick was a bit red for her taste, but she thought, whatever Jack had in mind, it probably couldn't hurt.

The room she'd rented for the night provided her several luxuries she'd been living without, and after a long bath, a good night's rest, and a square meal, Miranda felt like a new (albeit whorish) woman in her new clothes and cosmetics. Glancing at herself one last time in the mirror, she picked up her bag full of gold, rum, and matches. It wasn't quite large enough to fit everything, and the neck and cork of the bottle stuck out rather obviously.

She set out for the town hall from the inn feeling rather silly dressed as she was carrying what looked like a purse full of spirits. She noticed black smoke curling up from somewhere in the center of the town, and she didn't think much of it until she continued on her path and realized she was headed straight for it.

The town hall was consumed in flames. Great tongues of orange licked out of the windows, blackening the brick and setting the wooden detailing afire. Somewhere from the belly of building a muffled explosion coughed fire onto the cobbled streets below and Miranda ducked, hurrying back a few steps to several other by-passers that had stopped to watch. Some of the onlookers gasped, pointing at something. Miranda followed their fingers and saw a figure come barreling around the corner of the building. The high-kneed run could mean it was only one man.

"Jack!" Miranda cried in alarm. He neared her, still running, and she noticed his hands were still chained together. She saw his eyes leap to her face, and then to her purse. He seized her wrist with both his hands and continued running. Jerked into a run, she followed him and he let go of her to run faster.

"What are we doing?" She called to him.

"Running!" was the only answer she got. She glanced back and saw a dozen uniformed men round the corner of the town hall and begin to pursue them. A jolt of fear ran through her as she realized that regardless of how little she'd actually done, she was now guilty by association for running with the offending party.

Jack was no longer in front of her. She looked wildly to her side and saw him just as he took a second turn down another street. She checked her pace and followed, now understanding that he was trying to lose the men rather than outrun them.

The narrow street opened up to a deserted courtyard with a large well in the center. A brilliant blue macaw sat on the overhanging rod, but fluttered away indignantly as they approached.

Jack halted abruptly, and Miranda slammed into him before she could stop herself. Jack caught her momentum and pushed her into the well.

"Tuck your legs!" he suggested, but Miranda was too blinded with fury to listen as she fell, finally hitting the water with a hard slap. Her legs and back went momentarily numb, and then began to throb. Before she could scream her anger at him he fell on top of her and sent her under.

Finding she could touch the bottom of the well with her feet, Miranda kicked back to the surface and began coughing to get the water from her lungs. Jack shoved his palm to her mouth to muffle the noise as he looked up at the circle of sky above. His hand reeked of oil, smoke, and a hint of alcohol.

"Why are we here?" Miranda hissed once she caught her breath.

Jack looked at her and seemed to take her in for a moment. Miranda felt suddenly very aware of her bedraggled hairstyle and her makeup with must now be running down her cheeks. And of course, the indecent dress.

"Very nice, love." He murmured, flicking his eyes back up the sky. "I'll take some of that rum now." Before Miranda could even react, Jack slipped the bottle from her sack, ripped the cork out with his teeth, and took a long drink. He wiped his mouth with his wet sleeve, and offered the bottle back.

"No, thank you. You drink enough for the both of us." Miranda glared at him, to which he returned, but with exaggerated contempt.

"Why did you even ask for my help if you were just going to set fire to the whole thing?" She demanded.

"Now _that_ was not part of the plan," Jack admitted, taking another swig.

"And why did you have me dress like this and bring matches?"

"The matches were supposed to be a bargaining tool." His eyes sunk past her gaze and stopped momentarily before returning back to her face. "And the view?" He smirked. "That's just for me, love."

"You filthy-"

"Ah, ah!" Jack caught her words with a grin. "I just saved you from a mass of not exceptionally pleasant guards and this is how you thank me?"

"You pushed me into a _well_ and expect me to _thank_ you?"

"Don't worry, love, we'll get out," he promised.

/\

Jack was right, but it wasn't until dark that a lantern was held over and a voice called down, "Cap'tin?"

Miranda looked up and saw a silhouette leaning over the well.

"Aye, Master Gibbs. Get Marty and Cotton and get us out of here." Jack shouted easily. Miranda glared at him. "Now what?" he demanded.

"First you tell me to help you escape, only to do it yourself. Then you tell me to figure out how to get us off the island once you're on the run, and now suddenly you have help. You have a ship, too, don't you?"

"Maybe."

Miranda sighed with frustration. "Why did you even ask for my help?"

"Haven't you ever heard of a back-up plan, darling?"

Before Miranda could argue more, a rope splashed into the water between them. They both snatched it up at the same time. Jack seemed to think for a moment, then let go as he swept into a dripping bow. "Ladies first."

When Miranda was drawn from the well she looked at the men who held the rope and noticed the oldest of the three had on his shoulder a very familiar-looking blue macaw. The men looked at her curiously, but she ignored their stares as she wrung the water from her dress.

"A little help, gentlemen!" Jack's voice cried from the well, and the men snapped back into action.

Once Jack was standing in the courtyard with them, he spun around to Miranda and smiled cheekily. "'Ta, love. It was a privilege to be in your fine company again."

Miranda felt herself flush with rage as she watched the men turn their backs on her and begin to walk away.

"Jack Sparrow, you will not take one more step." Her voice was hard with her anger, but level. Jack froze, one foot in the air. He stepped back and spun around.

"Miss me already?"

"You agreed to help me. Now, I fulfilled my part of the bargain, and it's time you do the same."

"Yes, but you didn't actually help me, did you?" Jack sauntered towards her, swinging his hands in gesticulation.

"I did all I could considering the thing I was supposed to help you escape from was on fire."

"Yes, but in all reality, all you really did today was follow me, question me, and argue with me. I don't need that kind of attitude on my ship."

Miranda wanted to scream in frustration, but she tried to stay calm. She unslung her bag from her shoulder as she said, "I guess there really is only one language you pirates understand." With that, she threw the bag to the ground. Gold coins spilled out and rolled towards the men. One hit Jack's left boot, and he bent forward to pick it up. He examined it for a moment, and then smiled at her.

"Welcome aboard, love."

There was very little debate when Jack and his crew found out Miranda would be bringing with her a coffin, and the only reason she could imagine was that the crew was used to Jack's reasoning, which often tended to be a bit deranged.

As the she followed them to the harbor she glanced at the ship, and her body went cold. The rotten, tattered sails fluttered in the night breeze, and she could hear the familiar creaking of the wood from the beach. The ship bell clanged in the wind and pierced her soul. She dropped the handle and fell heavily to her knees, her eyes hot with tears.

With her blurred vision she saw Jack turn back and look at her. She blinked hard and rose to her feet. He may be helping her, but she would be damned if she let him see her cry. She stood shakily and felt her legs moving even though her mind was being pulled like the tide was pulled the shore.

/\

"How many?" Miranda slammed her fist on the table at the tavern. Her blood felt cold as it seemed to drain from her extremities. Barbossa looked at her hand impassively, and his eyes worked their way up her arm to her face.

"Thought ye'd be a bit more pleased." His voice was low and hard. Some time earlier, Miranda would have sensed his tone and dropped the subject, but tonight she was too livid to care.

"I have to leave right now," she warned him. "And don't you follow me." She felt the eyes of the men as she left the room in a haze of grief and anger. She knew his nature like the back of her hand, why did this consistency hurt her so with every new example?

As she walked down the crowded street she felt a bony hand grab at her shoulder. She turned to see the moonlit, ragged face of Barbossa, his eyes gleaming deep in their sockets.

"I told you not to follow me." She felt tears swell at her eyes and her throat thicken.

"Ye left me no choice, Miss Farthin'." He pulled her into an alley to avoid the stairs of those passing by.

"How many?" Despite her anger, she felt her chin quivering and was thankful for the darkness. The moon slipped behind the clouds and Barbossa was once again flesh.

"We get closer every day to reversin' the curse. We gained seven more coins this afternoon and-"

"No." Miranda felt the word shake with her suppressed tears and fury. "I don't give a damn how many coins you recovered if you killed to get them. How many _men_ did you kill today?"

"The deed is done, what good be a number?"

Miranda slipped her shoulder from his grasp and and began walking away. He didn't follow this time.

She made her way out of town and down the path leading to the docks. When she could see the ocean and hear the waves ripping the shore, she strayed from the path and climbed up on a nearby rock. She curled her knees to her chest and watched the water. In the distance she heard the bell of the _Pearl_ ring clearly from a strong evening gale. She ducked her head and finally let the tears flow.

Footsteps drew near her, and she looked up to see Barbossa watching her from the path. He glanced at the sea, and then back at her. With a heavy sigh, he approached and leaned against the rock. Nothing was said for several moments. The bell rang out again in one clear peal, and then faded away.

"We see things differently," Barbossa began quietly. "An' I can be as stubborn and narrow-minded as the biggest fool there ever be. But the way I see it," he paused, and Miranda felt his eyes fall on her, but she looked straight ahead. "Every coin brings me one step closer to you, an' I'd do anythin' to feel yer warmth against me."

"Even kill," Miranda supplied tonelessly, not looking at him.

"Even kill," he agreed. "M'randa, we be pirates. It's what we _do_. An' if I be rememberin' correctly, you once said you'd tolerate it."

"Don't use my own words against me," Miranda snapped, finally turning to look at him. During the whole conversation she'd pictured clearly in her mind his face as he spoke, but now that she saw him, she found she'd been wrong.

Instead of the stubborn eyes and the clenched jaw as she'd imagined, his eyes had an intensity she couldn't explain and his mouth was slack in his silence. A sliver of moonlight ate away his left hand resting at his side against the rock. She felt her own hard expression soften slightly, and she looked back out the _Pearl_. She sighed.

"I did."

She felt his hand brush her hair off her shoulder and lightly grazed the back of her neck. His palm rested there for a moment, and then his full strength emerged in his grip. He redirected her head to face him and caught the small of her back with his other hand. In a moment she was pressed tightly to him and his lips were on hers.

It was not a romantic kiss; Miranda found herself on her back with the rock uncomfortably jabbing her spine as Barbossa's hands clutched almost desperately to her. Even as the moon broke through the clouds and she felt his features rot and desiccate against hers, she knew she had never had a more passionate kiss.

The ship bell rang out clearly into the night

/\

The distant ring of the ship's bell filled Miranda's heart with an emptiness and pain as she looked up to see not Barbossa, but Jack Sparrow looking curiously at her.

"You got a problem with the _Pearl, _love?"

"I-" Miranda's head swam in confusion from his question. "Wait, what?"

Jack cocked his head as he looked at her. "You kept asking 'how many' and then started repeating 'rot and decay.'" He paused, clearly examining her expression of confusion. "You don't remember, do you?"

The cold fear Miranda had suppressed bobbed to the surface, but she ignored it. "I must have been lost in thought," she supplied. "I've been on this ship before."

"Let me guess: Barbossa's captive?" Jack yanked Miranda to her feet and chivalrously lifted the rope handle of the coffin and began towing it towards the gangway.

"Allow me to put your womanish fears to rest, love," he called back to her as she followed him onto the ship. "That man is dead." He smiled engagingly, his head tilted to one side. "I shot him m'self."

Miranda stood rooted to the deck at these words. Her blood went cold but her mind seemed almost feverishly hot. She vaguely saw the men running about her getting ready for cast-off, but couldn't process anything. She hardly heard the snap of the rope and the frantic cries of the pirates around her as one shouted, "Rogue boom! Heave to port, men!"

The heavy beam swung across the deck and connected solidly with Miranda's head. Explosions of light erupted behind her now-streaming eyes, and she crumpled to the floor.


	22. An Echo of What had Once Been

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

**An Echo of What had Once Been**

The water, smooth as glass and as black as the sky above seemed to whisper a haunting tune from its depths in Miranda's ears. She stood on the beach of blood-red sand and looked out to sea. There was not a wave or movement as far as the eye could see, and Miranda wondered for an absurd moment if the ocean had frozen over. The heat from the sand and still air reminded her it was summer.

She gingerly stepped into the cool water and watched the ripples widen in their perfectly-curved path away from her. When she looked up again she was in the brig of the _Pearl, _with Barbossa standing before her. She leaned forward to kiss him and as she did his flesh began to slough off and splash into the water at their feet. She bent to gather the pieces. They stuck to her fingers but dissolved as she lifted them from the water. She straightened up to apologize and saw Antony now standing in Barbossa's place wearing the pirate's clothes. His shoulder was soaked in blood and spreading. He looked down to wound and smiled sadly at her. His smile split his face in two, sending the top part of his head lolling back against the back of his neck.

Miranda took a step back and found her feet out of the water. She looked down and saw she was standing on a rock with small tide pools around her. Gold shimmered off every surface.

She was only vaguely aware that a fight seemed to be commencing around her until something exploded to her right. She whirled around to see bones and cloth blasted in every direction away from a long pole that now clanged to the ground. She raised her hand to see the tendons and bones off her palm exposed without the skin. Rings hung off her fingers-one that looked familiar for some reason.

She realized she was wearing tattered pants and a long coat with wide cuffs. She touched her face but couldn't feel the pressure. She stepped into the tide pool but couldn't sense the temperature of the water.

A gold coin flew through the air in an arc above her head. She looked at it soon enough to recognize the skull carved into it. As she followed its path through the air a hand snatched it. She followed the arm down to see the face of a young man with dark hair.

She felt her arm raise almost as if there was a string tied around her wrist that someone was pulling. Before her stood Barbossa, sword drawn, face wary. As her arm raised higher she realized there was a pistol in her hand. Her finger contracted. The pistol bucked her arm back and sent a shock wave through her body. Barbossa fell.

She opened her mouth to scream but as she did, water issued out from her throat at such a speed the cave was soon under water. She felt herself sinking until her feet hit sand, and she collapsed. She opened her eyes to see that she was back on the red beach, but the water was now boiling and seething. As the bubbles burst to the surface they made sounds like a child gasping _ah!_ The sounds filled her ears and she clutched her hair as she cringed.

Miranda noticed black stones dotting the shore and stooped to collect them. She made a large pile as high as her waist, and as she dropped the last one on top Tia Dalma raised her head from the mound and looked kindly at her. She slowly pointed to the pitch black sky and Miranda craned her neck back to see. The world inverted itself and suddenly she was falling, falling, falling into the depths of blackness and eternity.

Miranda felt her whole body spasm as she flew up from her supine position. She propped herself up with her elbows in the bed and looked into the eyes of Barbossa.

"You're alive," she breathed, pushing herself forward to embrace him.

"O' course I am, Miss Farthin'. What else could I be?" He smiled and pushed her hair from her forehead damp with sweat. He leaned forward and kissed her warmly on the mouth. Miranda wished she could stop time to preserve this moment of sweet relief and comfort. She felt her eyes fill with tears.

"I'm sorry I left."

"Nay, lass. I never blamed you," he whispered, holding the back of her head and pressing his forehead to hers. "Smile for me."

"I missed you so much." The tears spilled down her cheeks as she tried to curve her lips.

"Shouldn't've slept so long, then."

Jack Sparrow's voice was like a bolt of lightning down Miranda's spine. She looked up and saw him standing behind Barbossa in the doorway of the small cabin. She looked back in confusion to Barbossa, but his body was twisting away like smoke in the wind.

Her brain seemed to tighten in her skull as she tried to make sense of reality. She had woken up within her dream, but her eyes hadn't _opened_ to see Jack, nor had they been closed when she saw Barbossa.

"How long have I been asleep?" It was the only question she could think to ask that made an ounce of sense.

"Four days." Jack examined his nails. "I really should knock my passengers out more as they board," he grinned. "Saves me rations and putting up with 'em. You are one of my more bothersome clients. Your friend is really startin' to smell up the ship."

It took Miranda a moment to realize what he was talking about, and another to remember the last words he said to her before she was knocked unconscious. She knew if Jack found out whose body she had brought with her, he would certainly not let her follow through with her plan. She felt behind her head at the large bump by her left ear.

"I don't have a concussion, do I?"

Jack bent forward where he was and peered at her eyes. "Pupils look the same. I wouldn't worry, love."

Miranda swung her legs over the bed and slowly stood. The room spun for a moment as she regained her balance, and she blinked several time. "I need some fresh air," she explained needlessly, brushing past Jack and through the doorway.

It felt so wrong to be aboard the _Pearl_ without Barbossa giving orders and tossing Miranda gruff smiles when their eyes met. She knew the ship by heart but it seemed like a completely different vessel now that she was alone. She walked slowly to the prow and leaned her elbows against the railing.

Although she thought about Barbossa every day, she seldom wanted to remember the last time she'd ever seen him alive. She had been too upset, too selfish. He should have fought her.

"So yer up?" a man called to her. She jerked to see the man who met them at the well. Gibbs, Miranda recalled, was what Jack had called him. His question didn't require affirmation, and she returned her gaze back to the sea spread before them.

"Ye know, two men here reckon they know ye," Gibbs called. This got Miranda's attention; the only pirates who would know her had been aboard the _Pearl_ under Barbossa's command. "Aye," Gibbs continued. He took a swig from a flask at his side, and then turned to cry, "Pintel! Ragetti! Get over here, ya lazy pea brains."

The names jarred Miranda as she watched the two familiar men approach. Ragetti was rubbing his eye with his palm, but dropped his arm when he saw her.

"Mornin', Sleeping Beauty." He giggled and extended the hand with which he'd been rubbing his wooden eye to Miranda. She hesitantly shook his hand with her fingertips and smiled. "Nice to see a familiar face."

"'Allo," Pintel grunted, slapping Miranda soundly on the shoulder.

"How did you two get here?" She asked.

"The ol' parlay trick." Miranda thought she sensed a hint of bitterness in Pintel's voice.

"After we broke the curse, see," Ragetti began eagerly, "we was eager to stay alive. Didn't have much o' a choice but ta' join the _Pearl's _new crew."

Miranda nodded, only half listening as a question burned her mind. "Were either of you there when . . ." she glanced to make sure Gibbs was properly out of earshot, ". . . When he died?"

A look of sympathy filled Ragetti's ugly face as he nodded solemnly. "Aye, Miss. He died fast, if yer wonderin'."

"Did he say anything?" Her throat felt suddenly thick as she wondered if she really wanted to know more.

"Said 'e felt cold." Pintel muttered drily. Ragetti elbowed him in the ribs, and looked somberly at Miranda. "He said he felt cold, after he was shot."

"That's what I said 'e said!" Pintel was indignant.

"I know," Ragetti replied patiently, "but you didn' say it _sympathe'ically_."

Pintel huffed, and marched away grumbling. Miranda turned to lean over the rail again. Her body felt heavy from just hearing his last words. He'd waited so long to feel anything, and the one sensation he'd been given before Jack Sparrow robbed him of life was cold. Cold and pain. She felt herself shake with anger and grief.

Ragetti must have misinterpreted it for a sob, because he laid his hand awkwardly on her back. Miranda turned to look at his uncomfortable expression. "Thank you." She said curtly, and he dropped his hand with relief.

She had a brief thought of telling Pintel and Ragetti her plans and employ their help, but then reasoned that the fewer people that knew would be less of a chance Jack finding out, and she couldn't risk that.

"Aye!" Gibbs shouted from across he deck, "Tend to yer duties, ya one-eyed mantis!" Ragetti scurried away with a backwards wave at Miranda. She looked beyond him to the helm, whereat Jack stood, legs apart, eyes, on the horizon. Her amused irritation with the man had changed to pure anger and disgust with the new knowledge of his actions towards Barbossa.

She approached Gibbs, who despite ordering others around, had been leaning with his back to the mast as he swigged something from his flask.

"We are heading to the island where Tia Dalma lives, correct?" She asked him.

"Upriver? Aye."

Relief filled Miranda, and she continued, "And how far are we from reaching her?"

Gibbs shrugged. "Day or so." He clearly had nothing more to say to her, because he turned and walked away. Miranda returned to the rail, hugging herself as she leaned forward. The sea was calm, the water almost unnaturally blue. Miranda leaned further over the railing. It was so clear she could see the dark schools of shining fish below the surface and the sun gilded each crest with shimmering gold. Overwhelmed with its loveliness, Miranda closed her eyes to hold it in her mind.

"A beautiful sight." She felt a strong hand on her back but she didn't turn around. She knew it was him, and merely nodded.

"I meant you."

She smiled, ducking her head for a moment, and then looked out to the sea again. She felt his hand slide to her waist as he leaned with her against the railing.

"In all me years sailin'," he began, "not once have I tired of the water." It felt so good to hear his voice again that Miranda closed her eyes to just listen. She leaned her head on his shoulder.

"We're almost there." She whispered almost more to herself than to him.

_She shows you who you truly are._ Miranda wasn't sure if Barbossa had just said those words or if she heard them murmured on the breeze as an echo of what had once been.


	23. Every Hope within Her

**A/N: **Ok! So here's the deal, I was planning on making this a super long chapter, but I've been so busy the past few weeks with work and school that I haven't had a chance to devote myself properly to writing. So here's what's happening: I'm giving you this short chapter now so you have something new to read, and the rest of the chapter will just become chapter twenty-four, which may be a while in the making. Sorry for the wait for such a short chapter, I'll make it up to you!Also: I'm super proud of how I made Tia's accent-if you have a hard time understanding, try reading it aloud. Anyway, I'll let you read now :)

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

**Every Hope within Her  
**

"Miranda, love, it's always a pleasure." Jack swept into a low bow as Gibbs hauled the coffin to the railing. Miranda gave a curt nod to Jack as she swung her leg over the side to climb down to the skiff. She hoped this was the last time she would ever see the man.

It took a pulley manned by three crewman to get the coffin into the skiff, and Miranda worried that at any moment the lid would slip and Jack would see whose body lay within. Miraculously, the lid stayed secure and was settled into the small boat with her with little difficulty. She loosened the ropes, nodded one last time to Jack, and pushed away from the ship with one of the oars.

The island was just as she had remembered it. The dense, twisting trees blotted out the sun as she rowed slowly up the river. Roots and odd, ropey vines draped hazardously in the water as she maneuvered around them as best she could. A few times she thought she saw dark figures standing beside the ancient trees, but in the dim light it was hard to determine.

Miranda remembered the last time she had come this way. She remembered finding it lovely and peaceful; the golden-green light shimmering through the leaves and the fireflies like dancing sparks.

Alone, all she felt was the coldness of the erie green shade cloaking her. Something knocked against the boat and she looked in time to see a scaly tail undulate past her. She shivered, and rowed faster.

And then she heard singing. The low, almost off-key melody she'd heard before filled the air like humidity and clung heavily to her skin. It resonated across the water and cause ripples towards the boat. Miranda rowed toward the source of the soft waves and soon saw the golden-red light of the witch's raised dwelling.

Miranda began trembling harder. Everything she had done was leading to a moment soon to pass. She didn't know what Tia Dalma could do to help her, or if she even could. If nothing came from this visit . . . Miranda didn't want to think of the possibility. Every hope within her rested on the abilities of a woman she'd met once.

The ladder was difficult to climb as her limbs shook. Her brain seemed to have filled with ice while her heart burned in fiery bursts of panic and apprehension.

Tia stood on the porch, leaning casually against the doorframe. "My child," she greeted warmly. "You came bahk."

Miranda nodded, closing her eyes to gather her what strength she had left. "I need your help."

"I know you do," she agreed, smiling sadly. She straightened up and added, "Come in, you look freezin'."

Miranda followed her wordlessly into the small house and sat stiffly on one of the chairs by the fire.

"I tink," Tia began, "you worry because you do'en know if I cen help." She paused. "But I cen."

Miranda looked up a her as she felt her heart fly to her throat. "What needs to be done?"

"Sev'ral tings," Tia replied, bustling around the cabinets. "Tea?"

"No, thank you. What things?"

"Sev'ral," she repeated. "But first I need t'see him." She glanced up at a doorway several steps above the small room. "In dere."

"I'll need your help bringing the coffin up," Miranda said apologetically. Tia shook her head. "You have my help already." She nodded once to the doorway. "In dere."

Miranda rose slowly to her feet and climbed up the few steps to peek through the door. Barbossa's body lay face up on a low table. "How did you . . . ?"

"My child," Tia sighed, but said nothing more. If Miranda had any doubts of the woman's sorcery before they were laid to rest with this.

Tia slipped into the room and circled the table. She played with the many necklaces around her throat as she looked closely at the wound. She placed one palm on his forehead with the other over his heart, and closed her eyes. She was silent for so long that Miranda began to wonder if something was wrong. She finally opened her eyes and heaved a sigh.

"I's not so bahd," she concluded, looking at Miranda. "Wi' da body still on dis eart', all him missin' is him sou'el."

She turned around and began pulling jars from hooks that hung from the low ceiling. "I have much ta do ta prepare. But dere is one ting only you cen do."

She reached up and unhooked a small bottle with a silver handle wrapped around the neck. "You'll need ta go to da Sea o' Starlit Sou'els at da end o' da eart' ahn' retrieve him. Put him sou'el in dis jar ahn' bring it bahk here."

"How will I know which is his?"

Tia looked at Miranda for a long moment. Her face was soft, her eyes glittered. She slowly handed the small bottle over the body towards her with a slight smile.

"You'll know."


	24. The Heartbeat of the Ocean

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

The Heartbeat of the Ocean

Miranda felt the small boat bob with the waves as Pintel rowed to shore. She looked across at Barbossa and smiled. He didn't return the smile, but his face was pleasantly relaxed. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and closed her eyes as she breathed in deeply.

Tonight was a celebration. 879 of the coins had been accounted before, and all evidence pointed to Tortuga as the resting place of the final coins. Spirits were high as the men rowed to the town, and she could sense that something important was soon to come. When the curse was broken, Miranda wondered absently how Barbossa would change. She knew that with his senses returned, she could finally return the affections he had given to her without any frustrations on either side. It would be a beautiful harmony.

The boat scraped over the sand and she lifted her skirts as she hopped onto the shore. The sand slid beneath her feet as she darted away from the waves. The other boats were dragged from the water and the men leapt out. They stood fidgeting, awaiting their captain's orders.

"Let us break this curse once an' fer all, boys!" Barbossa cried with a half smile curling his lip. Rallied by his words, the men gave whoops of agreement and made for the town. Barbossa seized Miranda's wrist as she tried to follow. "Not you, Miss Farthin'." His voice was soft. "You'll be comin' with me."

They walked side by side along the surf, the gentle waves and occasional gull's cry creating a lovely symphony to their silence. At long length, Barbossa paused to stare out at the ocean. Miranda halted and returned to his side.

"What?" She asked, seeing a smile tug his mouth. He slowly tore his eyes from the horizon to look at her.

"It's been years an' years since the curse began," he almost whispered. "An' I'd forgotten what joy feels like." His fingers slipped behind Miranda's ear and twined slowly through her hair to caress her neck. She felt goosebumps raise on her arms at his touch. After a moment he drew his hand back to look at it. "An' soon I will feel your warmth." He sucked in a breath and closed his eyes.

"It won't be much longer," Miranda said, smiling up at him. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a green apple from his pocket. He turned it slowly in his hand.

"I won't be havin' you in the cave when the curse be broken." His voice was firm enough she knew not to argue. "The ritual," he continued, "is not suitable for a lady to be seein'."

Miranda felt a cold sliver of dread slip down her back. She cocked her head to the side and waited for an explanation. It didn't come. She heaved a sigh of resignation and looked back to the ocean. Barbossa continued to stare at the apple intently and finally concluded, "An apple will have to do until I return to you."

"I hope you won't be too sated by it." She forced her voice to sound joking and tried to smile. Barbossa barked a laugh this time.

"M'randa," he growled, "there be nothing in this wide world good enough t'let me forget you for even a moment." He pulled her close and dipped her into a a light kiss. "No'teven an apple." Miranda seized his jacket and pulled herself toward him into a deeper kiss.

"I don't care what you say, Captain." Miranda grinned. "There's a romantic streak in you yet." Barbossa smiled ruefully in return, and dropped his arms so she fell the short distance to the sand.

"Not a'tall, Miss Farthin'. I merely be bidin' my time until I can ravish you properly."

Miranda laughed, rolling on her back and looking up at the sky. Barbossa joined her on the sand, propping himself up with his elbows.

"This ritual," Miranda began, "what is it?"

Barbossa was silent for several minutes. Miranda closed her eyes tightly, feeling the cold slip of suspicious dread return from its brief absence.

"Never mind." The words came out more sharply than she'd intended them. As she felt the unexpected anger in her tone, she realized that an old fury was welling up in her chest. "Bloodshed? Sacrifice? Disembowelment?" She felt her cheeks flush. "What must be done to end this wretched curse?"

"The second one." His voice was low and flat.

Miranda struggled to feet, swearing. "Damn it, Barbossa, I knew that this would never be easy, but I don't know where the line is drawn. I can't wait patiently on the ship while you and your men kill. I can't. But truly, how many people have to die to justify ending this curse?" She felt hot tears spring to her eyes, but she looked up, willing them not to fall.

"I love you," she said shakily, "but I can't handle any more death." She turned to walk away and heard him rise to his feet.

"This has been troublin' you all along, Miss Farthin'." It wasn't a question. Miranda stopped mid-stride but didn't turn around.

"Of course it has." After a long pause she finally glanced over her shoulder, but Barbossa's gaze seemed locked on the sea. She bit her lip and walked away.

The bar was rowdy, but Miranda hid herself away on the second floor away from the brawl. She'd never indulged in rum before, but thought the occasion required some outside help. It tasted revolting. With her head bent low at her small table in the dark corner, she didn't even draw attention from the group of four men gambling across the room.

She had told Barbossa she'd forgiven him for Quentin's death, but the truth was not so simple. Every time she learned of a new victim she felt a little angrier towards him. A man cannot be truly sorry if he continually repeats the same actions, and that's where it hurt Miranda the most. Perhaps he regretted Quentin's death, but only because it served as an inconvenience to his own gain. She hated herself for thinking such things and tried not to, but the simple explanation seemed all too possible.

He loved her, but he was unwilling to change. She had given her life over to him. The unfairness ate away at her heart. She took a sip from her mug, shuddered, and quickly let the liquid fall out of her mouth back into the cup. She held her head in her hands as she stared blankly at the table.

There was nothing to do about it, she realized heavily. She was trapped with a man she should not love. The romanticism had been so appealing away from him, so forbidden and tempting. The day-to-day reality of her decision seemed to be eating away at her heart as she dealt with the constant reminder that the man she loved was an unrepentant, unreformed killer.

"'Aven't go' a pound or two on you for a poor gambler, do you, missy?"

Miranda gave a small shriek of surprise at the voice by her side, and looked alarmed at the man kneeling by her side. He was unusually well-kept for the tavern's standard, but liquor was heavy on his breath.

"I- no," Miranda stammered, gaining her own breath back.

"Aw, c'mon, missy, sure you can spare a few." He pawed at her sleeve shamelessly and Miranda leapt to her feet, causing her chair to tumble over backwards. She felt her lip curl back as she looked down at him.

"Easy now, Captain," one of the other gamblers called from the table. "We don't want no trouble from the locals." The man still kneeling by her glanced back at his table, his head wobbling slightly.

"I'm no' foldin'," he insisted thickly. "I go' a two and a seven in me hand and I'll be servin' you dogs wif a royal flush at the end." He looked back up at Miranda and pulled half-heartedly at her skirts. "Just a few pounds, missy."

Miranda pushed his shoulder away with one hand. The man swayed for a moment and then buckled to the floor. Another man at the table rose to his feet and only then Miranda realized he was wore a red coat. He had unbuttoned it in the casual atmosphere but Miranda recognized the gold epaulettes on his shoulders as confirming evidence of his command in the British navy.

He moved from behind the table and to his fallen senior officer. He bowed sheepishly to Miranda.

"Beg pardon, miss. He's had a bit much to drink this evening."

"Quite," Miranda agreed curtly. The man looked up at her and met her eyes. His ashamed expression changed to recognition.

"You're Col. Everett Farthing's daughter."

Miranda felt as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over her head and she fumbled for her chair. Not able to reach it since she'd already knocked it sideways, she slid into the next closest chair at her table and put both her hands flat on the table.

"Yes." She didn't look back at the man.

"Commander Rupert Hastings, at your service, miss." He leaned down to where his head was level with hers and smiled up at her.

"How do you know who I am?" Her voice was timid, and she felt very self-conscious all of a sudden.

"I was at your wedding rehearsal. I saw the entire thing." He reached across the table and laid his hand on hers for a moment, then withdrew. "I can't imagine what you must have been through."

Miranda his her face behind her hands, feeling her cheeks flush. She felt like a child caught after trying to run away from home. Misinterpreting this gesture as anguish rather than shame, Rupert patted her shoulder comfortingly.

"There, there. It's all over, now. We'll take you back to Port Royal. Can you tell me what happened?" Miranda knew he was trying to be helpful, but she could hear the trace of pure curiosity in his question.

"No," she replied bluntly. He looked surprised, but nodded thoughtfully at her answer. "What are you naval men doing in Tortuga?" she asked in attempt to change the subject.

"Captain's orders," Rupert answered,. "Lying low and learning the faces and habits of pirates that cause us trouble. Although the captain seems to be enjoying the 'lying low' part better than anything else." He gave a weak laugh at his joke to show he was trying to lighten the conversation.

"How is Antony?" Miranda recalled the bullet Barbossa had given him in the shoulder. The scene felt as if it had come from another person's memories.

"Fully recovered and active," Rupert said with reassurance. "The wound was deep, but nothing old Dr. Potter couldn't fix. Antony will be delighted to know that you're safe and well," he added after a moment's pause.

From the table he'd been sitting at one of the men called, "Oy! Hastings, you'd better be getting more money from that little-"

"It's the colonel's missing daughter, Pratt," Rupert snapped before the man could finish. The remaining two men at the table scrambled over, and the one ducked his head. "'Pologies, ma'am. I thought you were a local bar pros-"

"Enough, Pratt," Rupert said through clenched teeth. Pratt squared his shoulders defensively.

"Well, there's a lot of them in this town. I'd say almost every other woman here is either a-"

"That's _enough_, Lieutenant." The other man giggled and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"What'll we do about the captain?" Pratt asked, looking amusedly at the prone form.

"You and O'Connell carry him back to the ship. I'll escort Miss Farthing, and we'll call it a job well done." Rupert smiled at Miranda, but she was too busy reeling at the name with which he'd chosen to address her.

She hated how much she loved to hear Barbossa call her _Miss Farthin'. _She owed him a goodbye.

"You should accompany them," she said to Rupert. "There are a few loose ends I need to tie up, but I will meet you . . . ?" She trailed off and listened to his directions of how to get to the ship. Not being a pirate ship, they had had to lay anchor several miles from the town.

"But you really mustn't go alone," Rupert finished solidly. "This town is savage; a lady like you alone would attract-"

"I assure you, Commander, I can manage. You don't know what I've dealt with."

Rupert shook his head warily, but to Miranda's astonishment, finally said, "We leave in the morning."

She watched the three men leave carrying the unconscious captain between them. She rose shakily, wondering vaguely if she had been dreaming for the past hour. Or the past few months, for that matter. Nothing seemed real anymore.

She followed the path out of town to the bay where the _Pearl _bobbed gently on the waves, and sat in the sand, waiting.

Miranda thought about what she was about to do. In her mind it seemed like the sanest decision she had ever made. Her heart ached. She closed her eyes breathed deeply the scent of the ocean. It would always be there, and perhaps that's all she needed. Perhaps the sea was her true love and Barbossa was just a vessel to it. Perhaps all she needed was the sea.

She stood slowly and walked towards the wet, wave-licked sand. The tide pulled at her ankles and loosened the sand beneath her feet. Perhaps this was all she could ever hope for.

"You'll be glad t'hear we had no luck findin' the coins, so no bloodshed."

Miranda didn't turn around at the sound of his voice behind her.

The tide washed in and out. In and out. The heartbeat of the ocean.

"I'm leaving."

In and out. In and out. In and out.

"I knew it could never last."

In and out.

"I don't belong here."

In and out. A cool breeze lifted the hair from her shoulders and Miranda turned to look at Barbossa. He stood as he always had, one hand at his belt and the other to his side. His eyes were hidden in the dark.

"Yer too good fer the likes of a pirate." He took a step forward and stopped, his head tilted to one side. "I knew this day would come." The moon slipped from the clouds and Barbossa shed his human appearance for several seconds. As he took another step towards her, a rustle in the tall grass hemming the strand caused both Miranda and Barbossa to jump.

"You stay away fr-" the familiar voice caused Miranda to inhale sharply as the form of Rupert Hastings emerged from the high grass. The crack of the pistol cut his words short and he faltered, landing heavily to his hands and knees.

The clouds again enveloped the moon and Miranda saw Barbossa's form, pistol still raised and smoking slightly from the barrel. She ran to Rupert's fallen form and caught him up. Darkness bloomed against his bright white shirt beneath his red coat. It was too much and flowing too freely.

"I'm sorry," Miranda gasped, her hands now slippery with his blood as she tried to staunch the wound with her palms. "I'm so sorry." Rupert's eyelids fluttered and he gave a rasping exhale. Then he was still.

In and out. In and out.

Miranda slowly rose to her feet. She marched up to Barbossa and slapped his face hard, leaving a long streak of Rupert's blood across his temple to chin.

"You monster!" She screamed, feeling hot tears wet her cheeks. "I gave my life away for you, and the one thing I beg you not to do, you do again and again and again. You horrid, cruel, heartless coward."

Miranda stopped to catch her breath, and shoved the tears off her cheek with her palm. "I was a fool for thinking you could love."

She walked away balling her fists, her mind blank with fury and grief. It was all she could do to just breathe.

In and out. In and out.

In and out.


	25. The Sea of Starlit Souls

Chapter Twenty-Five

The Sea of Starlit Souls

The velvet black sky above her seemed to hold more stars than Miranda had ever seen in her life. She gazed numbly up at their sparkling beauty as she lied motionless on her back in the small boat.

The final words she'd spoken to Barbossa still pierced her heart and caused a familiar cold tightening of her mind. She let it take her and closed her eyes, but the stars above burned through her lids. She felt the small bottle in her hand and sat up suddenly. The boat swayed with her movement and caused small ripples across the vast, smooth sea.

Each star was reflected perfectly on the glasslike surface, and the water seemed to glow from so much light. Miranda dipped her hand in the water and although she felt heat from the star's reflection, it didn't strike her as unusual.

She didn't know how she'd gotten here, and she didn't know how much time had passed. It seemed very likely she was dreaming.

_You are, love. _

Miranda turned to look for the source of the voice. Barbossa sat facing her at the prow of the boat. He was smiling.

_Or somethin' sim'lar to it. _His voice seemed to come more from inside her own head than from the movement of his lips. _You're almost there. _

"I don't know what to do," Miranda admitted helplessly, looking at the bottle Tia had given her. "I have to find your soul and Tia said I would know it when I found it, but I don't know how to begin."

_Sea of Starlit Souls, _he reminded her. _Per'aps it be easier than you think, Miss Farthin'._

"But I can't reach the stars." It sounded absurd as she said it. Barbossa gave a laugh, and pulled her close.

_Don't start with what you can't reach, _he murmured, twining his fingers through her hair. He pointed on finger over the edge of the boat. _Start with what you can reach._

Miranda leaned over the boat to look down into the water again. The closest thing she could reach was the water, and she stretched her hand over to brush the surface with her fingertips. She felt the boat tilt with her shift in weight, but couldn't react fast enough. The small boat capsized swiftly, and Miranda fell headfirst into the water. She opened her eyes as she tumbled beneath the surface and nearly choked.

The sea did not reflect the small points of light in the sky above, but hosted them. The sea was dotted with brilliant burning orbs of white gold light at varying depths beneath the surface. They were not in fixed place and danced about in the water playfully as Miranda swam for the surface. She swung her arm over the now upside down boat and hauled herself onto the keel with difficulty.

Gasping for breath, she looked back at the water at the glowing orbs still swirling lazily from her wake. Miranda laid her cheek on the wet wood of the boat and dreamily watched the movement. After a moment or two she rolled onto her back and looked up at the bejeweled sky. The stars danced fluidly above as the velvet sky reflected their path in the ocean below. The concept was enough to make Miranda slightly dizzy but still enchanted.

_Start with what you can reach_.

Barbossa was now gone, but his words echoed in her mind. Listlessly, she rolled her arm from resting on her stomach to brushing the water with her fingertips. The glowing stars bobbed peacefully below the surface, and one drifted toward her. She curled it into her hand and brought it to her face.

It was the size of her palm and warmth radiated from it. It was almost blindingly bright and when she closed her eyes and turned away, she could still see it burning like fire on her eyelids. Miranda slowly uncurled her fingers and let it slip back into the water with a soft _shh_.

The Sea of Starlit Souls. Barbossa's was here, somewhere. Miranda propped herself up on her elbows as she remained precariously on the keel of the upside-down boat, and looked wearily around at the sparkling waters. There were so many.

Slowly, she slipped from the keel and back into the water. _First things first: right the boat_. She treaded water as she heaved the side of the boat over her head, but the weight of the boat pushed her beneath the surface. Miranda felt the wamth of one of the small spheres swirl around her neck. It brushed against her chest and its heat seared her vision with golden light.

_Let them read your heart._

The voice wasn't Barbossa's. And while it wasn't hers either, it had whispered to her from somewhere within her own mind. Miranda felt a sudden, almost desperate tugging in the water, as if she were caught in a strong current. She quickly righted the boat and clambered in. Even though she wasn't in the water anymore, she still felt the current pulling her from within her chest. The sparkling orbs seemed to part a way beneath the boat, and slowly she dipped her oar into the water and began paddling.

Miranda paddled for hours, and the current slowly grew stronger. The glowing spheres continued to part before her and swirl about in her wake, dissolving the path through the waters she'd already passed. Her eyes grew heavy and her arms weary, but she kept going. Several times she felt her head drop forward, but she jerked it back.

As the submerged orbs continued to part for her ahead, she saw one in the distance unmoving from her path. As she drew nearer, it remained solidly in her path, and the spheres beyond it swayed only with the ocean waves. Miranda slipped her hand into the water and curved her fingers around it. She brought it from the water and held it in both hands. The pulling subsided, and Miranda felt her breath leave her as she stared into the small, bright ball of light.

"It's you_."_ Her voice was thinner than a whisper, and the orb grew brighter as she spoke. She gently placed it in the bottle Tia had given her. Something in her reminded her of Tia's last words to her before she set off.

"Da Sea o' Starlit Sou'els," the witch had said, "is no' a place for those who only dream. You must have a sound an' strong mind to go to da ends o' da eart'."

A cold, curling fear had traced Miranda's thoughts at these words, but she had said nothing, and Tia continued.

"You got a strong mind, my child? I see doubt on your face."

"No," Miranda had said hurriedly, "just overwhelmed."

"Tis no joke, child." Tia had looked down sternly at her, her eyes furrowed. "Those dat go to da sea at the ends of the earth, somedin happens to dem, and dey never be da same. To bring back a sou'el requires all your strength; 'tisn't a simple task."

"I'll be fine."

Miranda tilted her head back and gazed at the sky. What exactly did it mean to have a strong, sound mind? There had been many times she had forgotten when and where she was, but that didn't mean anything except that she had been grieving the loss of Barbossa.

_Did it? _The cold voice hissed in her ear, and Miranda almost dropped the small bottle into her lap in surprise.

"Who's there?" In the glittering dark her voice seemed pathetic and small.

_No one you'd listen to. _The voice echoed in her head, and Miranda swung around, but saw nothing but shimmering water. Her eyes passed over her reflection in the water and she stopped breathing.

Her eyes were shadowed pits and her face was wan and stretched too tightly over her skull. Her hair hung in wet, tangled ropes. Miranda raised her hand to her face and felt her cheek. Her skin felt warm and full, not at all like this skeletal, chapped face she saw below her. Her hair felt dry.

_Finally._ Her reflection looked sadly up at her as it spoke. _Perhaps now you see . . ._

"See what?" Miranda demanded, unnerved by the independent movement of her reflection. It synchronized to her for a moment, then sighed.

_You're mad._

"Don't be absurd," Miranda argued, watching her mirrored reflection only echo her words. She paused, and waved her right arm. The reflection followed obediently.

"What are you?" She demanded, leaning closer. Her movement was only imitated. Miranda leaned back and looked back up at the sky. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply the salty air. It calmed her like no other remedy could, and she took several more deep breaths.

The boat rocked violently to one side. Miranda clutched either side to steady herself and it, but the boat kept rolling from side to side. She glanced hurriedly over the side to see if there was something below her causing the movement, but there was nothing but the brightly burning stars below. She felt odd spasms in her arms, almost as she were the one rocking the boat.

Impossible.

_Is it? How else could your body defy your thoughts unless your mind were split?_

"Stop it!" Miranda cried. It was the last thing she said before the boat rolled sideways and capsized. She sucked in a quick breath and squeezed her eyes shut.

But the water never hit her. She opened her eyes. The boat was still right-side up, the small jar remained safely in her lap, but she was completely soaked with seawater. Miranda dipped her oar in the water and immediately noticed a change. The orbs remained fixed in their places, but shimmered now as if merely reflections of the stars above. She cupped her hands in the water to scoop one up, but sifted only water through her hands as she tried to lift one to her face.

Her mind reeled, she felt oddly dizzy. She swirled the water with her oar trying to stir the glowing spheres, but they only twinkled with the movement of the water.

Panic sunk its teeth into her mind and caused a white hot pain to flash down her spine. She dropped the oar and caught the small jar up with both hands and inspected it carefully. The burning star seemed to be unchanged within and she let herself breath again with relief.

"_This is the end."_ Miranda gasped at the words rolling from her mouth, beyond her control.

"Stop that!" She cried, not sure she wanted to think about whom she was speaking to. Her eyes pricked with burning, fearful tears. She pulled at her hair and clutched the small bottle with her hand. Both hands felt heavy and stiff. The tears slid down her cheeks as she felt helpless and broken and torn from her own mind.

The water began to swirl about the small boat, and she looked up, distracted. The water churned and curled about to form a whirlpool that dipped in the center. A dark head rose from the deep and the churning and swirling stopped. Miranda found herself looking at Tia as she treaded water, smiling sadly up at her.

"I'm so sorry, child." Her voice was low, as if she were speaking in the back of her throat. She suddenly sat, dry, in the boat across from Miranda.

"What's happening to me?" It was a question she didn't expect an answer to, but it was all she could think of to say.

"I warned you. Strong mind. Sound mind. You weren't strong enough ta return to this world wit'out facin' consequences. Why didn' you tell me?"

"What consequences?" Miranda's mind was spinning in her skull and it was all she could do to speak.

"You found him sou'el, child, but you aren't strong enough ta bear an extra sou'el. So now you must choose. Him sou'el or your ow'en mind. Only one can survive."

Miranda closed her eyes as she tried to breath slowly. It was too difficult, and she looked up at Tia.

"Have you ever loved?" Miranda asked, her voice thin but resolved.

Tia gave her a small smile, nodding. "Aye, my child."

Miranda shuddered back a sob as she looked down at the small bottle beaming brightly in her palm. Her eyes burned but there were no tears left, only hot, stinging pain. The choice was an obvious one; the alternative too unbearable to live with.

"You know magic?"

Tia nodded once. Miranda drew in a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. The words were almost too painful to allow her mouth to form them.

"Make him forget me."


	26. Something Long Forgotten

Author's Note: Super long chapter alert! I had a place I wanted to end this chapter with, and it took longer to get there than I first thought.

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

**Something Long Forgotten**

"Mind the bow sail, ya floundering fool!" The captain roared, ducking as the boom of the sail swept over his shoulder where his head had just been. Water slicked from the canvas pelted Barbossa's already soaked form. He growled as Pintel hastily caught the rope and heaved the sail back in place.

The sky was darker than night even though it could only be mid afternoon. Rain pounded the blood-soaked deck as shipmen scurried about, slipping on the wet wood. Those less graceful pirates found themselves on their hands and knees swearing at the blood now creeping from the ship to their clothes and skin.

A waterfall of blood and water obscured the steps from the quarter deck to the main deck, but Barbossa barely noticed. He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the splintered bowsprit and delicate figurehead of the defeated ship slip beneath the frothy waves.

He gave a hearty laugh to lift the spirits of his men, but it was forced all the same. The men cheered in answer. Barbossa said nothing, but slipped into his cabin and hung his drenched hat and overcoat on the hook by the door.

Lightning momentarily brightened the room and he made his way for the dim oil lamp swinging from the ceiling, He turned the spindle to lengthen the wick, and sat down wearily at the table. His head ached from the ringing of steel against steel, the screams of men, and the deep rumblings of thunder. He pressed his forefinger and thumb to the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.

It had been ten years since Barbossa woke in the darkened room of the witch's stilted house. In that time battles had been fought and won, journeys had been undertaken, and adventures had. Most importantly however, the curse had been broken. Although freed from its bonds, Barbossa found that it had left lasting effects on his mind. Interviews with his shipmates whom also had suffered from the curse were no help, for it seemed only Barbossa's taste had been changed by the reversal.

Green apples, the thing he had wanted to savor more than anything else, were sour-too sour to relish, too disappointing in texture to enjoy. Every bite, or even the scent of one caused an unusual stirring in the back of Barbossa's mind, as if reminding him of something long forgotten.

His desire for feminine warmth was not what it had been in his days before the curse. In his incredulity he'd experimented with the women he'd always found satisfactory before. Although the sensations had returned, he felt only emptiness after, somehow weighted with a burden of unfathomable regret.

Several hammering knocks came from the door and Barbossa winced. Whoever was on the other side of that door would soon regret his choice. Barbossa crossed the room and furiously threw the door open. Ragetti clung to the doorframe, his entire body slumped sideways from holding the wounded form of a young man.

"Sorry ta bofer you , cap'tin," Ragetti apologized. "We pulled this fella from the water. Says he wants ta be part of da crew."

Barbossa snarled and grabbed the man's thin upper arm and relieved Ragetti of his hold. He lifted the slight man almost off the floor to look him in the face.

"What be yer name, ya scurvy pup?"

"Fausto De Faria." The man looked up challengingly, his dark eyes burning and his lip curled into a sneer. Barbossa saw the man's face muscles quiver for a moment, and noticed the darkening rust-colored stain on his left side.

"I suppose it couldn't hurt to have a cabin boy." Barbossa spat out the title. The man tried to laugh, but it turned into a fit of coughing. He clutched his side and stood as upright as he could.

"I was first mate on _The Laughing Storm_."

"And I'm sure the position be still available," Barbossa replied, gesturing over the rail. Men who had gathered around to watch laughed at this comment, but Barbossa continued, "I have no need for some pretty-boy first mate. Take him to the infirmary; we want him cleaned up before we make him swab this filthy deck."

/\

Barbossa stood quite still at the wheel, hands resting lightly on the spokes. De Faria stood before him, fully restored to his health except the new bruise blooming on his high cheekbone.

"You sent for me, Captain?" His voice was calm, deliberate, and arrogant. Barbossa kept his eyes trained on the horizon. Looking at the man's smug face would only make him more furious.

"Tell me, De Faria, did your previous captain allow you ta fight anyone you pleased?"

"None of my _previous _crewmates challenged my authority."

"Ya got no 'thority on my ship, you jumped-up ruffian."

De Faria shrugged with a smirk. "They started it. It's not my fault they didn't do their own jobs. They're all threatened by my efficiency to do not only my own demeaning tasks, but to any that I see also need attending."

"If there be one more fight, I'll start thinkin' I have too many men on board, and I'll start downsizin'." Barbossa finally looked at De Faria. "Beginnin' with you. And I don't like downsizin'. Settin' up that _plank_ be such a hassle."

De Faria nodded, still smiling. "Understood, Captain. Just let me know when you're ready for a first mate. I have a few ideas on who the expendable men are, if you do have to undertake the troublesome job of downsizing." He spun on his heel and left.

When he was gone Barbossa allowed himself a slight smile of his own. The man was infuriatingly arrogant, but he reminded Barbossa very much of himself.

"Cap'tin!"

Barbossa started, and saw Grapple running across the main deck towards him.

"Merchant vessel dead ahead. French flag. Sits 'eavy in da water."

"That's all I need," Barbossa mumbled to himself with a side smile. "Let's go, men!"

Sparks and glimmered on the hull of the French ship before the thunder of the cannons reached Barbossa's ears. Heavy splashes erupted only a few hundred feet from Barbossa's ship, _The Sea Dragon. _

Barbossa thought grimly of the superior ship that had been stolen from him so many years ago. _The Pearl _would have easily breezed up to the merchant ship before they would even have a chance to defend themselves.

"Full sails!" He shouted. _The Dragon_ could not compare to _The Pearl's_ speed, but what it lacked in pace it made up in defense. While most humble pirate ships had one set of ten gunports per side, _The Dragon_ boasted two decks solely for cannons, and each deck provided twelve small windows for cannons to peer from.

The only problem was turning the ship fast enough and close enough without being riddled by cannon fire from the opposing ship. It had served Barbossa faithfully for the past seven years, however, and he had no doubt of who the victors would be.

The advantage was already theirs; the French vessel sat so heavily in the water with her legally-acquired goods that her sails were not up to the task of haste. _The Dragon _swiftly caught up and angled away from the cannon range.

As Barbossa's men prepared to board the ship from he port side, Barbossa caught sight of De Faria climbing up the rigging.

_That's not part of the plan_, Barbossa thought, watching the dark-skinned man with only half arrested interest. When he reached the boom of the topsail, he clambered to his feet on the rounded timber and cautiously made his way to the edge.

Then he leapt. He slid down against the foresail of the French ship until he caught a handful of rope from the rigging. De Faria dexterously made his way up the sail while Barbossa's other men began heaving planks into place to use as bridges to board the vessel. No one seemed to notice De Faria's progress except Barbossa.

The French crew had already begun gunfire at the pirates, but their pistols were terribly inaccurate. The few with rifles were able to bring a few pirates down, but by then Barbossa's men had already made their way onto the French ship, and guns were rendered useless. Ringing steel filled the air as swords caught the sunlight.

A clear, singing gunshot muted all other noises and caused all the men to look around wildly to find the source of the noise.

De Faria was standing at the helm, one arm wrapped around the captain and resting a wicked-looking dagger to his neck. His other arm was held high above his head and held a golden gun with a highly polished wooden handle. The French crew almost simultaneously lowered their weapons.

De Faria whispered something into the captain's ear and the captain began speaking to his men in French. Without a word they dropped their weapons and raised their hands up to their heads and made a tidy line against the railing.

Encouraged at this sight, the other men of _The Dragon_ looked up to De Faria, who gave a side smile and pushed the captain down the stairs onto the main deck and to the front of the line.

What followed could only be compared to a firing squad. Smoke rose from the pirates' guns as the French crew stumbled and fell one by one until there were none left standing.

Something stirred in Barbossa's mind again, but he couldn't grasp it. He'd never thought of himself as a man controlled by a conscience or a servant to an almighty god, but in the past years he'd begun feeling this deep, unexplained feeling of a separation, as if something more important than himself were being pulled farther away from him when he let such killing happen. It was an unnerving feeling, compounded so because he knew he hadn't always felt this estrangement, but couldn't recall a single event that could have affected him so deeply.

/\

According to the captain's log, the French ship had been collecting donations from all over the Caribbean to deliver goods and building supplies to French missionaries in Colombia and Panama.

Barbossa's men were disheartened to find the reason the vessel was so low in the water was not because of gold and jewels, but old bricks from torn down buildings and lumber. Several chests were full of clothing and blankets, and others full of children's toys or old dishes.

"Nothin' but old trash!" Pintel grumbled, kicking one such chest out of the way. The others seemed to be disheartened as well, and they all grumbled and swore with the opening of a new box to reveal nothing but grammar books and used Bibles, cracked teapots, or shoes.

Ragetti had found an old top hat and was rather pleased with himself.

"Guess them natives in the jungle won't need this," he commented to Pintel as he gestured to his aristocratic headwear. Pintel snorted, and slammed the lid down on crate full of iron nails and hammers.

Unperturbed, Ragetti raised the lid of yet another chest and began rummaging through sheet music and cookware. Near the bottom he found a small wooden box with bronze hasps. Hoping something valuable might be inside, he opened it to find nothing within. Sighing, he moved to close it, but something caught his eye. He opened it back up at stared for a moment, turning it towards the light to see better.

"Oy! Where do ya think yer goin'?" Pintel snapped, but Ragetti ignored him as he raced past to find the captain.

/\

Barbossa did not had an appropriate platform for his fury towards De Faria. At least, not one he could easily explain. So he went a different route.

The man sat across the table from him, chin in his hand, elbow on the table, eyebrow raised.

"I'm sorry," he said cooly, amusement in his eyes. "I guess we have different ideas of what 'pillage' and 'plunder' mean."

"Not at all," Barbossa said, possibly too swiftly. "I want me men workin' as a single unit. Soon as one strays with 'is own plan, they all want to play leader."

"Well, if my title was 'first mate', I'd have some authority to go my own way, now wouldn't I?"

It wasn't an argument Barbossa wanted to be having at the moment. The feeling of growing separation had weighed heavily on his mind all day and more than anything he wanted to figure out how he could go back to the way things had been.

When a knock came from the door he was grateful to say, "We'll finish this later, De Faria. Leave."

De Faria smirked and slid out the door just as Ragetti entered, wearing a ridiculous top hat.

"Nice hat," De Faria said absently. Ragetti grinned.

"What do ye want?" Barbossa snarled. His smile faded.

"Uh, somefin I found just now in the Frenchie's cargo." He laid a small wooden box on the table. "I didn' fink nuffin of it at first, but somefin about it . . . makes me feel like I've seen it b'fore. And your handwritin's in it. Under the lid."

Bewildered, Barbossa slowly opened the box and tilted it back to see writing that did indeed look like his. He read the words several times.

_She shows you who you truly are_

The words caused a great swelling in his heart- a place he was not accustomed to feeling things. It was obviously a message for someone, but for whom? In one instant the great distance Barbossa felt from . . . _something _vanished completely, but he still had no idea what his mind was withholding. He had no recollection of ever writing such words. It was possible the handwriting was not his, but if it wasn't, why had it caused such movement within him?

_Who had received this box, and why was it back in here_? Barbossa snapped the box shut and looked up at Ragetti.

"Where did ye find this?"

"In one of da boxes, sir. Wif a bunch'a paper and pots."

"Show me."

/\

After four hours of searching the messy records of the ship's secretary and the brief scribblings of the captain's log, Barbossa was able to track the box back to Port Royal. Possibly. There were several similarly described chests, none of which included the small box in its inventory, but only one description included the old collection of Easter cantatas that had been in the same chest.

"Change our bearings, De Faria," Barbossa ordered, climbing the narrow stairs back up to the main deck. De Faria saluted with a triumphant smile and Barbossa realized he'd just assigned him with a task generally given to the first mate. The young man fit the job description too damned well.

"Where to, Captain?" De Faria shouted, arms draped imperiously over the wheel.

"Port Royal. And I'm in a hurry." He carried the small box back into his cabin and set it on the table. He stared hard at it for several minutes, trying to remember where he'd seen it before. Why had he written such a message, and for what purpose? Who was the _she_ in the message, and who was the _you_?

_She shows you who you truly are._

_And what are you, then_? Barbossa buried his head in his hands in submission to the mystery. Perhaps Port Royal would hold the answers.

/\

"And why are we bothering with this?" De Faria asked again, tying a cravat around his neck. Barbossa rested a large blue hat on his own head and adjusted the medal on his breast.

"We be goin' fer answers, not bodies or treasure. We need ta look respectable."

De Faria laughed, rubbing a scuff on his newly-polished boots. "_Si._ It's been so very long since that word applied."

Barbossa glanced at Ragetti in the mirror. He was still wearing the absurd top hat.

"Ye'll not be wearin' _that_."

Ragetti's face fell as he touched the brim protectively. "I fink it makes me look like a gen'lemen."

"I think it makes you look like a dandy," Barbossa replied heartlessly.

"Or the village idiot," De Faria offered, and the two laughed. Ragetti reluctantly took off the hat and placed it lovingly on the table.

_The Dragon_ was anchored at Fisherman's Harbor, which meant the three had to travel some ways before they reached the city. Barbossa had selected the two because Ragetti also felt some sort of connection to the box, and De Faria had quickly become his right hand man, even if he still refused to give him the title "first mate." It was mainly an issue of principle at that point, and they both knew it.

"I 'aven't been 'ere since we kidnapped that Swann girl," Ragetti said with reminiscence as they looked down the hill at the port spread out before them.

"Aye," Barbossa agreed absently.

"Where to first?" De Faria asked crisply. He was not the nostalgic type.

"City Hall."

Ragetti and De Faria whirled around to stare agape at Barbossa.

"You must be mad," De Faria argued. "They'll see right through us and we'll be hanged faster than you can say 'parlay.'"

"Or 'Bootstrap's bootstraps.'"

When it was Ragetti's turn to be stared at blankly, he shrugged and mumbled, "Always like sayin' it, s'all."

"Anyway," Barbossa continued, "we be needin' names of the people who did contribute goods to that ship. That be our startin' point."

A woman sat at a small desk of the lobby and smiled up at them as they entered.

"Hello, how can I help you fine gentlemen?"

Ragetti giggled and Barbossa hit him hard in the solar plexus with his elbow. Ragetti began coughing and whooping for breath as Barbossa and De Faria approached her. De Faria leaned over the desk, giving her a winning smile.

"You've already helped me, darling, with that lovely smile of yours."

The young woman blushed with a shy smile, and looked down.

"Actually," Barbossa began, "We be affiliated with the French organization that was here just recently taking donations to them poor mission'ries in middle 'n south America."

"Of course," the woman said, still looking down at the desk. "They were here just a week or so ago."

"We've volunteered to go from house to house to personally thank each person who donated," De Faria said smoothly, "but we need the list first. We were told a certain beautiful secretary of the city hall would be able to get it for us." He lifted her chin up with his thumb and forefinger. She smiled and scratched her neck self-consciously.

"One moment," she promised, and slipped out of the room.

"Shameless," Barbossa hissed. De Faria grinned ruthlessly. "Worked, didn't it?"

Ragetti had finally caught his breath. "Don't see why I couldn'a dunnit." His point was not acknowledged by either.

"I'm sorry," the woman said as she re-entered the room. She never took her eyes off De Faria. "Some of those that donated wished to be anonymous, but I remember the largest contributors were from the Potter family, the Lady Turner, the Rislingtons-"

"Lady Turner?" Barbossa interrupted, distracted.

"Yes, she inherited her father's mansion and fortune." The woman answered, glancing briefly from De Faria to Barbossa.

"Anyone else you can remember?" De Faria pressed, recapturing her attention.

"Yes, the, um, the Rislingtons, the Murtoggs, Col. Farthing, and Mr. Smythe from Bristol."

"You'll have to write that down, darling. I find you rather . . . distracting."

Barbossa cleared his throat loudly and De Faria jerked to an upright position. The woman giggled. She hastily wrote down the names and handed the paper to De Faria without even looking at Barbossa or Ragetti.

"Let's go, Casanova," Barbossa growled, grabbing De Faria's arm and towing him out of the building.

"It _worked_," De Faria argued, slapping the paper onto Barbossa's chest. Barbossa grabbed it and read the names.

"Where do we go first, Cap'tin?" Ragetti asked.

"Lady _Turner_." Barbossa replied. It was the only name on the list that he could find. The Swann Mansion was the largest house in Port Royal, and Ragetti had been there once before

The knocker swung heavily against the door and was promptly answered by a buxom maid. She looked curiously at De Faria, and then Barbossa. When she saw Ragetti she gave a little shriek and slammed the door.

"I fink she remembers me," Ragetti concluded.

"So it seems." Barbossa slammed his fist against the door. It swung open again to reveal a woman dressed in rich clothes. Her face was hard.

"What is the meaning of this?" She demanded. Before any of them could speak, she continued, "Get in here once, I can't have the neighbors wondering."

"Mrs. Turner, what a pleasure it be to see ye again." Barbossa bowed deeply.

"Thank God I can't say the same," Elizabeth snapped, resting her hands on her hips. "What do you want?"

"A little help, is all."

"You want my help?" Though still angry, there was a touch of curiosity in her voice. She glanced at De Faria. "And who's he?"

"Fausto De Faria at your service, _signora._" De Faria bowed his head humbly.

"The cabin boy," Barbossa barked. De Faria grinned. "And you remember Ragetti?" On cue, Ragetti lifted the eyepatch he'd been wearing to look less like a pirate to reveal his wooden eye.

"Of course. Now what could you possibly want my help with?"

Barbossa withdrew the small wooden box from his pocket and handed it to her. "Do ye recognize this?"

"No," her voice had grown softer, and she opened it. "'She shows you who you truly are.' What does that mean?" Elizabeth looked up at Barbossa

"That's why we be at Port Royal."

Elizabeth sighed heavily, glancing from the box to the three. She gave a reluctant smile.

"Would you like some tea?"

/\

"And you're sure that it's your handwriting?" Elizabeth asked, setting down her teacup and picking the box up again from where it sat on the table.

"Aye." Barbossa replied simply. It was an easier answer than trying to explain the feeling of separation and initial leap of his heart when he first read the words.

"Mother, who are they?" a child's voice came from the door. Elizabeth whirled out of her chair, her face pale.

"James!" She scolded, "I told you to stay in your room."

The boy looked down at his shoes and said nothing.

"These are just acquaintances of mine and your father. I haven't seen them in a very long time, and they stopped by to visit."

Barbossa laughed. "Aye, acquaintances be correct. Ye look just like yer father, boy."

The boy looked up eagerly at Barbossa. "You know my father?"

"Sailed with him, I did," Barbossa replied. Elizabeth watched him warily.

"That's enough, James. I want you to go back to your room for now."

"What do ye tell the boy his father does for a livin'?" Barbossa asked with interest once James had trudged back to his room.

"That he helps the sick and dying at sea. He'll learn the rest when he's older," Elizabeth snapped.

Barbossa exhaled a single laugh, and returned to his cup of tea. De Faria, lost by this exchange, asked, "Do you know where these people live?" He slid the paper over to her and she glanced at it.

"Why do you want to know?" She asked suspiciously.

"Cross me heart, Mrs Turner, we mean no 'arm. Just some innocent questions ta get ta the bottom of this mystery."

"Don't make me promises, Barbossa," Elizabeth sighed, "I know you."

Ragetti giggled.

"I swear that this man be an idiot and that I have no intentions of hurtin' anyone here today," Barbossa concluded. Elizabeth nodded, half smiling.

"I guess that's as good as I'll get from the ruthless Captain Barbossa. Let me get some paper and I'll draw you a map."


	27. Gone

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

**Gone**

"You'll waste your time with the Rislingtons," Elizabeth said briskly, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "They probably donated mud or rocks. Your best bet is the Murtoggs, that colonel, or Mr. Smythe. The Potters probably just threw money at them."

"Much 'preciated, Mrs. Turner," Barbossa said, inclining his head in a slight bow. Elizabeth heaved a sigh, shaking her head ruefully. "I don't know why I do it."

"P'rhaps because ye owe me," Barbossa challenged humorously. Elizabeth's eyes widened with bemused interest.

"Owe you, Captain?"

"I b'lieve it was you and that young Turner did demand a wedding ceremony in the midst of a ragin' battle?"

"Oh, that," Elizabeth laughed. "I wouldn't take it back for the world. All right, we're even now."

De Faria slid the map Elizabeth had drawn off the table and shoved it in his pocket. "We should be leaving, Captain."

"Aye." Barbossa stood and bowed deeply, taking Elizabeth's hand and lightly kissing it. "T'was a pleasure."

"Good Lord, Captain, you almost strike me as decent," Elizabeth exclaimed, withdrawing her hand from his.

"Hardly," Barbossa retorted, straightening. "'Til we meet again, Mrs. Turner."

"Indeed," Elizabeth agreed, and showed them to the door since her maid Estrella was still cowering in the kitchen.

"Let me see da map," Ragetti asked, pawing at De Faria. De Faria handed it over, rolling his eyes.

"So . . ." Ragetti scrunched his eyes up as he stared intently at the map. "That way." He pointed a finger down the road.

"Learn ta read, ye maypole." Barbossa grumbled, and turned the map right-side up.

As the door to the first house they visited swung open, a woman greeted them. Upon seeing Barbossa's decorated jacket and sword, she smiled.

"Are you here for Antony?"

"Matters of business, ma'am," Barbossa answered smoothly. The woman nodded her head and beckoned them inside.

"Antony, you have visitors," she called as she closed the door. A man stumbled into sight shrugging his red coat on and adjusting his belt. His eyes landed on Barbossa and he paled.

"You!" He shouted, and seized the woman's arm. "Henrietta, send for Lieutenant Mullroy. Now." The woman, Henrietta, gave a frightened look, but obeyed.

"Do I know ye?" Barbossa asked, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

"'Know you?'" the man repeated weakly, completely taken aback. He ripped his coat off and pulled the neck of his undershirt over his shoulder to reveal a jagged white scar.

"You shot me the night before my wedding. You kidnapped my fiancee."

Barbossa glanced at Ragetti, who shrugged. "Sounds like sumfin you'd do."

"Now look here, Murtogg," Barbossa began, "I think ye be havin' me confused with another man, I've never seen ye before in me life." The words came out easily enough, but something about the man's face was familiar. Barbossa shook the feeling and stood resolutely staring down Murtogg until his gave in. It wasn't hard.

"I'm . . . I'm sorry," the man stammered. "I've just never seen someone who looked so similar to that man. I'm . . . Forgive me."

"No hard feelings',"Barbossa assured him softly.

Murtogg turned, "False alarm, Dear. I made a mistake." Henrietta peered worriedly back into the hall. "Perhaps I can offer you some tea?" Murtogg said, reddening darkly.

"No, but thank'e. I'm just havin' a question per'aps ye can help me with."

Murtogg didn't recognize the box.

"Probably the old colonel's, don't you think?" Murtogg asked his wife, handing her the box. Still a little pale, she glanced back the the three before taking it.

"Um, maybe. It's too plain a thing for the Rislington's taste, I should think. No offense intended, you see," she added hastily. "I don't know."

By the time they left the Murtogg's house the sun had begun to set, but Barbossa was determined to get a solid answer. They would at least visit the colonel's house, and see where it led them from there.

The visit to the Murtoggs had shaken Barbossa, even though he hid it well. Murtogg's accusation had sounded accurate, and for an instant, in that moment of the words processing in Barbossa's mind, he'd seen a flash of something. Someone. Sharp strains of a violin and the toss of golden-brown curls against shimmering blue silk. In another second it was gone.

"I'm sorry, I've never seen that box before." The old colonel apologized, handing it back to De Faria.

"Couldn't someone else have donated it?" De Faria persisted, "Your wife, or a servant perhaps?"

"My wife has been dead these five years, rest her soul, and I have only one servant."

"Can we ask him, then?"

"Her," the colonel corrected, "and yes." He picked up a small bell and rang it twice. A middle-aged woman in a dark dress appeared.

"Yes, sir?" She asked, head down.

"Did you give this box away?" the colonel asked gently. The maid blushed and bit her lip.

"I'm sorry, sir, I found it in her room and didn't recognize it as anything important. I didn't know you wanted to keep it. I'm so sorry, it won't happen again." She said all this very quickly and looked as she were about to cry.

"Hush, now, I'm not angry. These men were just wanting to know more about it. I have no need for it."

"And whose box was it, now?" Barbossa asked.

"I suppose it was my daughter's, but I've never seen it until now."

Ragetti gave a little hiccup and he looked around wildly, as if searching for something.

"Cap'tin," he whimpered, but Barbossa stamped hard on his foot. The pirate swore and clutched his knee to his chest.

"If ye'll excuse me associate and I fer just a moment," Barbossa explained and yanked Ragetti from the parlor into the front hall.

"What?" He hissed through gritted teeth. They'd explicitly agreed to not use terms of rank to keep to their story.

"I fink I've been here b'fore," Ragetti whispered. "But I don' know why or when. I fink it's black magic or sumfin. I'm scared."

"Wait outside, then." Barbossa snarled, and whirled around to re-enter the parlor. Ragetti didn't follow.

"You were saying it was your daughter's?" De Faria asked as Barbossa sat down.

"I suppose," the man shrugged, "but she's been gone for years."

"Married, I presume?"

The man looked sharply at De Faria, his face traced with sorrow. "She's gone to us."

"Oh, I'm sorry." De Faria stumbled over words he wasn't accustomed to saying. "If we could look around her room perhaps, we might figure out where this box came from. A receipt perhaps . . ."

It was a loose theory, but the colonel didn't seem bothered. He waved his hand in permission, and sighed, "Up the stairs to your right. The larger furniture has been sold, but some of her things are still there."

"What _are_ we looking for?" De Faria asked as Barbossa pushed the door opened and they entered the room.

Barbossa didn't know how to answer him.

A box stood by the open window. It looked as though the contents of a dresser had been hastily thrown in to be organized later, but since forgotten. Papers, ribbons, kerchiefs, jewelry, stockings.

Barbossa rifled through the papers for anything. Many were letters or simple sketches of flowers and seashells. There was a bundle of heavier paper edged in gold tied with a red ribbon. Barbossa slid one from the ties to see the words _A cordial invitation_ in curling letters. He flipped it open and stared at what was written within.

_To the wedding of the Esteemed Officer Antony Murtogg and Miss Miranda Farthing_

Miss Miranda Farthing.

A roaring, rushing scream filled Barbossa's mind as he read and reread the name. _Who _was_ she_? Something had flashed briefly in his mind, but the harder he tried to remember it, the more it slipped away. The only detail he could summon was a pair of lovely, tearful eyes, as grey and troubled as the stormy sea.

Barbossa shoved one of the invitations into his pocket and began a frenzied search for something, anything in the box that would tell him more about this girl. He glanced again at the letters, but they were addressed to the girl, naturally, from friends and some from Murtogg. Words jumped out from the writing and Barbossa narrowed his brow.

. . . _ so delighted that you've returned unharmed, you must come visit so delighted that you've returned unharmed, you must come visit . . . _

. . . _and after all those misadventures it's a wonder you're doing as well as you are, nevertheless we're all praying for you . . . _

_. . . I'd missed you so those months we were apart. It truly showed me how much I care for you . . ._

_. . . showed me who I truly am . . ._

Something cold swept through Barbossa's body as he saw the familiar words. The paper looked liked the beginning of a letter, but had been slashed with two angry lines to make an "X" over the writing. Barbossa dropped everything else and lost himself in the words.

_ I feel awful about the way we parted. I'm so sorry about what I said; I know I can't change you, and I don't want to. It's always more difficult dealing with what we truly want when we _have_ it than when we are simply wishing for it. I know that now._

_ You weren't entirely right the day you told me it was the sea that showed me who I truly am. It wasn't the sea, but you. I know now who I am and what I want, but this is an unjust world. __I miss you__. __I love you__. (_These last two sentences were crossed out, and continued with:)_ I wish we were together again. I wish so many things that I know will never be realized._

_ I'm engaged now. Even though the truth is that I will never truly belong to anyone except you, we both know it won't work. We're both too stubborn __and I__ wish_

The letter ended abruptly. Barbossa turned the paper over, but already knew nothing else was written. He had heard her voice as he read it. Now he couldn't remember what it sounded like- only that it was perfect.

He heard De Faria rummaging carelessly through the closet and a sense of distaste filled his mouth. If what the man had said was true and the girl was dead, digging through her things felt deeply wrong.

It wasn't often Barbossa was lead by a higher power.

"Let's go." He barked. "Ragetti's waiting outside."

"Did you find anything?" De Faria asked.

"No." Barbossa slipped the letters into his pocket and the two left with only the briefest goodbye to the colonel.

/\

"Please remember."

The young woman's soft cry pulled Barbossa close and he tucked her to his chest. He held her tightly, pressing his cheek to her hair. He couldn't remember what she looked like. He tried to hold her at an arm's length, but she pressed herself closer, burying her face in his coat.

"You've forgotten me." Her sobs rent his heart.

"Who are you?" He found himself asking.

"'She shows you who you truly are.' You won't like her truth," the woman whispered, and disappeared.

Barbossa sat up in his darkened cabin. The ship's bell rang softly from the night wind. As he recalled his dream it slipped away until he could only remember holding _her_. Whoever she was.

He slipped his trousers on and put his coat on over his naked chest. The night air lifted his heart as he made his way to the helm. Darkness had always relaxed him, and he smiled grimly as the ship drifted into a patch of moonlight. He held his hand to his face and watched the flesh slide over muscles and tendons in the silver light. The curse was broken.

A sharp scream slipped through his heart and Barbossa buckled to his knees. It was the most peculiar feeling he had ever experienced. He hadn't heard with his ears. His heart had seemed to stop its very pulse for those few seconds the sound ripped through it, and he clutched at his chest, gasping for breath.

The deck remained barren; the scream had gone unheard by the others. It was Barbossa's alone to suffer. He rose unsteadily to his feet and grasped the wheel for support. Something crunched in his pocket and he withdrew the contents. The letters. He flattened them out against the railing and began to read, still pressing his palm to his chest.

_Dear Miranda,_

_ We all missed you terribly at my wedding, it just wasn't the same without you. I only just recently heard what happened. Now I'm so delighted that you've returned unharmed, you must come visit me and my new husband. I hear you're engaged yourself- congratulations, darling. I always knew you and Antony were close. The deepest love blooms from friendship, as I myself and my Walter can attest to. _

_ I look forward to hearing from you._

_ Your Cousin,_

_ Penelope Goldsberry_

Barbossa let the wind snatch the letter out of his hands, and looked at the one below.

_Miranda-_

_ Good gracious, but you've a story to tell! It's simply scandalous, being stolen away by a handsome pirate on the night before your wedding-I'm the most popular girl in Port Royal now just for being your best friend. They all want to here your story from me, but I'm sure I'm telling it all wrong. _

_ I still can't believe you've been back home for two months and I __still__ haven't seen you! I know you've been through much, and after all those misadventures it's a wonder you're doing as well as you are, nevertheless we're all praying for you. But do tell your parents they must stop being so protective, a girl like you has got to get some fresh air every now and then. I miss you dreadfully, please at least let your parents allow __me__ to see you; I'm practically your sister for Heaven's sake! _

_ Sincerely,_

_ Henrietta_

Barbossa wondered if he was the pirate the girl had written of. It coincided with Murtogg's story. The next letter was from Murtogg.

_My Miranda,_

_ I've already written three letters to your parents begging them to let me visit you, and they've ignored each one. I'm not mad, I still want to be your husband. I don't care about your past, I just want a future with you. I'd missed you so those months we were apart. It truly showed me how much I care for you. Now it's been six months since you returned and your parents still only allow Dr. Potter to see you. On Sunday morning I overheard your mother whisper to Mrs. Potter about sending you away. _

_ This frightened me terribly. Please, Miranda, give me some kind of hope that you're well. I still love you so much. _

_ Yours forever,_

_ Antony_

Frustrated, Barbossa crumpled the letters and threw them over the railing. So her parents sent their sickly child away and then she died. A complete waste of time.

"Well, that was a waste of time." De Faria unknowingly agreed with Barbossa, gesturing to the papers still resting on the waves as he ascended the steps to the helm.

"Aye." It was all Barbossa could think to say. He leaned heavily against the railing, staring out at the vast horizon. The moon's reflection lay shattered across the sea, and there was nothing before Barbossa but emptiness.

"It always comes back to a woman, doesn't it?" De Faria asked airily, propping his chin in his palm as he too leaned against the rail. Barbossa looked hard at him, and De Faria grinned.

"It's clear as day, Captain. What's the story?"

"There isn't one," Barbossa muttered curtly.

"Well, now it _is_ interesting," De Faria commented, looking back to the horizon. "Do go on."

"Flashes," Barbossa began abstractly, "vivid images of a girl. I don't know who she is."

"You've never seen her before?" A spark or curiosity gleamed in De Faria's eyes.

"Never."

"Sounds like the Siren's Curse to me. If you believe in that sort of thing." De Faria added, seeing Barbossa's expression. "Beautiful demons that plant false memories of themselves in your mind. They'll drive you mad if you let them. I saw it happen to a sailor once. Not pretty near the end."

The description caused Barbossa to bristle with defense, and it shamed him when he realized why. As a pirate, he was superstitious by nature, and his history was proof to any skeptic that curses were not just of legends. He didn't want suspicion to darken the flashes of this young woman. To his surprise, he'd grown attached to this woman he couldn't even prove knew of his existence.

"Just a thought," De Faria finished with a shrug. He pushed himself backwards off the railing and glanced up at the stars. "Where to now?"

"Montserrat," Barbossa growled. "And I b'lieve the lanterns need more oil."

"And I suppose that'll be my job?"

One look at the captain's expression supplied De Faria with his answer, and he left.

_Montserrat_. The name of the island had slipped from Barbossa's mouth as easily as one's name would if the question of identity were asked. _Why Montserrat? _Barbossa usually avoided British islands, their navy being the most threatening to a pirate's health.

Barbossa couldn't help but think that something larger than himself was guiding him, and it wasn't a damn siren. It was something that felt much closer to his very soul.


	28. Miss Miranda Farthing

Author's Note: Before anything else is said, I really want to thank all those lovely reviewers. Eleuteria, you hit the nail on the head. Even though I don't depend on so many reviews for one chapter before I even think of writing the next chapter, receiving such encouraging reviews really does help me sit down and write (even if I'm stuck), because I can't let you guys down! Anyway, I just broke 100 reviews for this story (!), and I want to thank you all so very much. Love you all :) Anyway, the story!

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

Barbossa knew his men had begun to question his leadership as soon as they realized their new headings. Montserrat was a British colony but one not known for its wealth. It was an island of parishes, not jewels or gold. A few said the captain was getting too old to be in charge, but most (due largely in part from De Faria's stories) believed he'd been stricken by the Siren's Curse.

"Now see 'ere, cap'tin," Pintel had argued, standing before Barbossa at the wheel five days since they'd left Port Royal. "Da first step is admitting it's a curse. I know ya know all 'bout 'em, and ya should recognize one when ya got it."

"Aye, o' course," Barbossa had agreed through gritted teeth. "And it ain't be a curse, ya lubberin' fool."

Barbossa hadn't even tried explaining the reason behind his course of action, and not just because he knew it wouldn't appeal to them. It was none of their business.

As the lush island appeared on the horizon, Barbossa summoned De Faria to his cabin. When he told him his plan, De Faria stood rigid, his brows furrowed.

"I won't go, if that's what you're expecting." His voice was hard. "Disguising once and playing a part is nothing, but I'm not about to make it part of my job description. I thought this was a pirate ship run by the ruthless Portuguese captain. I signed on to be a pirate. Treasure. Women. Pillaging. "

"I don' remember askin' yer opinion, De Faria." Barbossa spoke with a dangerous calm that made De Faria's eyes burn.

"I don't particularly care," De Faria snapped. "This ship deserves a better captain; one to lead it to spoils and treasure, not false trails to some cursed trollop."

If Barbossa hadn't known better, he would have thought De Faria leaned into the blow. The young man was unconscious before he hit the floor. Barbossa grabbed him by the back of his jacket and dragged him out on the main deck.

"Shut him in the brig until I return," he ordered to the men nearby. A few whispered to each other before coming forward and taking De Faria's limp form.

"I'll be back before nightfall," Barbossa growled.

It took over an hour for Barbossa to row the small skiff to the island alone. He had no idea where he was going, but he soon found a path that drew him to a valley of modest houses, storefronts, and a large church on the far side.

_What had led him here?_ Barbossa's mind ached from trying to understand everything that had recently happened. Weary and unresolved, fingers of doubt curled around his mind. Surely sirens wouldn't reside on such a civilized island. _Or would they?_ She couldn't be a siren.

He couldn't connect himself to her at all. Even her letter that could have been sent to him remained anonymous as to whom the recipient was to be. That didn't mean she was a siren.

How could he forget her? It was true, some events in his past seemed hazy, but he could always recall them. Everything he'd learned about the girl was from other people. Except those brief moments of clarity. The sounds, the images. He couldn't even remember now what they had been. But she couldn't be a siren.

"You there!"

Barbossa whirled around to face a boy no older than eight looking up at him in alarm. Barbossa glanced around and realized he'd been so deep in though he hadn't noticed that he'd reached the town streets.

"What do ye want?" He demanded, looking hard at the boy.

"I know you!" The boy cried, and seized his arm. "You must come with me."

"Ye don' know me an' I don' know you," Barbossa snarled, trying to the scare the child away. The boy shrank back momentarily, but his face was still curious.

"Please," he whispered, and Barbossa hesitated. Something he couldn't explain had led him to Montserrat in the first place. Perhaps this boy would lead him to an answer. Barbossa sighed, and nodded once at the boy, who grinned.

He led him to the town prison, and there Barbossa stopped. It was one thing to go ashore on British land where piracy was punishable by death, but entering a prison would be almost turning oneself in.

The boy glanced up at him questioningly. "We're almost there. You need to see my father." As he spoke a man stepped out of the shadowed columns and looked at the boy.

"Where've ya been to, boy?" His voice had a graceful Irish lilt to it, but Barbossa regarded him suspiciously. When the man caught sight of Barbossa, his face twisted in disbelief.

"It's him!" The boy exclaimed, seeing his father's face. "The one in the picture!" His father nodded, the look of shock still on his face. Barbossa stomped up the white steps to the man.

"What's all this be about?"

"One of our inma- charges drew a picture years ago of a man. It's still on the wall of their cell. It looks just like ya."

Something cold swept through Barbossa's insides. "I'd like ta be the judge of that statement."

"Of course," the man agreed, still flustered. He led him inside past the main lobby to a set of stairs. The man unlocked the door and relocked it after they had both stepped on the landing.

"My name is Marcus, by the way," the man said, holding out a tentative hand. Barbossa stared hard at him, and he dropped his arm self-consciously to his side. Barbossa followed the man in silence until they reached the bottom of the stairs, and Marcus unlocked the next door, and swung it out to reveal a barely-lit stone hallway with metal grated doors lining both sides. As the passed each cell Barbossa glanced from side to side. Many of the inmates were asleep. Some were speaking to themselves or the stone walls. A few were restrained in their cots.

"The asylum sends their 'opeless cases down 'ere," Marcus whispered reverently, and finally paused, gesturing to the next cell. Tentatively, Barbossa approached the cell door and rested his hand almost tenderly on one of the metal bars.

First he noticed the charcoal drawing done on brown butcher's paper hanging from the wall. It was indeed his face, even though the lines had been smudged and blurred with time and contact. He looked long at the picture but something stirred in the corner, and he finally saw the huddled form in the corner.

Her dark, dirty hair hung in tangled ropes over her face. Her dark dress was worn thin and raggedly hung off her meager frame. Her legs, naked to the knee, looked brittle as twigs and twisted, angry scars ran from her bare feet to her knees. A noise of pity escaped Barbossa's throat, and her head lifted slowly.

There was nothing but vast emptiness behind her eyes. They were dull and lifeless, but when Barbossa looked into them he knew her. Her laugh. Her voice. Her smile. The graceful turn of her head when she'd heard him call to her. The stubborn glares she'd given him during arguments. She'd loved the color blue and the sound of the waves crashing upon the shore. She'd hated him and loved him. The conniving, fiery strumpet. The sweet, loving young woman. _Miss Farthin'_.

"Open this door." It wasn't a request.

Marcus looked at him strangely for a moment, then sighed and began ticking of the keys on the ring that hung from his belt. "She's one of our well-be'aved ones. Never talks, 'ardly moves, barely eats." He finally located the appropriate key and slid the door to the side.

Slowly, as if afraid a strong exhale would break her, Barbossa entered the cell. He knelt and and slowly lifted one of her hands from where it hand been resting on her ankle. She looked straight into his eyes but he got the heartbreaking feeling that she wasn't seeing him. He reached up and touched her cheek. His fingers remembered the shape of her face and he traced the overly-pronounced curve of her cheekbone to her ear.

"Miss Farthin'." The syllables felt wonderful as he spoke. She continued to stare vacantly at him, and he tried again. "M'randa."

She blinked, and rested her head sideways on her knee. Her eyes were focused on something far away. Barbossa stood, suddenly furious.

"Why is she here?" He demanded, grabbing Marcus by the front of his jacket.

"Like I said, the asylum sends over its patients who aren't progressin'."

"What will happen to her?"

Marcus shrugged. "She'll stay 'ere unless her parents return for 'er."

Barbossa thought back to the old colonel sipping his tea, talking as if his daughter were dead.

"She'll be comin' with me, then." He growled, releasing Marcus from his grip with a shove.

"Legally, I can't let you just-" The pistol aimed straight at his forehead caused Marcus to falter. Barbossa lowered it a few inches to look him in the eye.

"I forced ye," Barbossa said calmly. "I threatened ye with the life of yer son. Tell 'em whatever ye want. She'll be comin' with me."

"That she will," Marcus whimpered.

The woman followed him willingly enough and didn't speak a single word as he wrapped his coat around her bony shoulders before leading her from the prison into the lengthening shadows of twilight. Her eyes were still heart-wrenchingly vacant. She walked as though something else were controlling her movement, her arms hanging limply and her head dropped loosely to one side. She never tripped, even as he guided her through the dense undergrowth of the forest that surrounded the town.

It wasn't until he'd shoved the rowboat back in the water that he noticed something wrong. As he looked to the sea the darkening waves broke white froth at his feet, and the horizon lay bare before him. _The Sea Dragon_ was gone.

It didn't take much intuition to assemble the pieces. De Faria's rebellious words, the crew doubting Barbossa's capabilities and naturally looking for a new leader. Although such mutiny would any other time have affected him, all Barbossa could do was gaze wearily where it had been anchored.

He turned back to look at Miranda Farthing. She stood quite still, the large jacket nearly touching the sand on her slight frame. Her eyes were fixed with frightening intensity on the ocean.

_Barbossa._

The rising tide seemed to have whispered his name and the captain jerked upright. A gull seemed to laugh as it drifted over his head, and he heard the voice again-this time in the wind.

_So you find her._

The voice sounded familiar. Barbossa whipped around to look back at the waves, from which a dark-skinned woman was ascending. Her mortal name had been Tia.

"Calypso." Barbossa nodded his head in greeting, and she smiled at him.

"It been so long," she exclaimed, approaching him and stopping a few feet away. Her eyes passed from Barbossa's face to the woman in rags behind him. "But poor girl," she breathed, "it se'ms like yeste'day she spoke dem words."

"What words?" Barbossa asked. Calypso smiled sadly up at him.

"'Make 'im forget me.' Dose were da last words she's spoken. Silent ever since."

Barbossa felt his shoulders sag. "Why?"

"She had to trade her ow'en mind for your sou'el. Sweet girl. She didn' want ya to see her like . . ." Calypso looked back at the woman, still intently staring at the water. ". . . like dis. So she asked me to make you forget her."

"Yer a witch, Calypso. Why couldn't ya save her?" His words cracked harshly through the air. Calypso only gave a sideways smile.

"I was mortal den."

The implication caught Barbossa's attention, and his anger subsided slightly. "And now?"

"Well." Calypso laughed the word, and continued. "Dere's still not'ing I cen do, but I cen help you."

"How?"

"Miss Miranda Fard'ing lost her mind. Oe'nly you cen find it. I give you dis." She bent forward and scooped a round stone from the water. She held it in both hand and held it to her mouth, whispering an ancient language. When she opened her hands, a waxy green apple had replaced the stone. She held it out for Barbossa to take.

"Eat," she directed. "When you wake, you must find her."

"Ya must delight in givin' out mysterious help," Barbossa growled. Calypso only laughed. As she did so, her body began to shimmer and ripple. In another second she was a laughing column of water, and in another second she'd descended back into the waves.

Frustrated, Barbossa stomped out of the water and leaned against one of the nearby palm trees. Miranda stood calmly before him now, still staring hypnotized at the water. Barbossa contemplated the apple. When he bit into it, it tasted as tangy and sweet as he remembered it should.

The darkening form of Miranda Farthing was the last thing he saw before sleep took him.


	29. And This World was Hers

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

**And This World was Hers**

Barbossa opened his eyes to see a long, carpeted hallway with doors on either side. The walls were of richly polished walnut, and brass sconces dotted the walls between the doors. Behind him was black nothingness. Barbossa took an involuntary step away from where he'd come and looked back to hall spread before him. At the end stood a narrow door with an iron bar secured across it.

Barbossa approached the closest door and tested the gleaming brass handle. It turned easily, silently. The door swung open without pressure, as if it wanted to reveal its interior. He stepped through.

Moonlight struck a silvery glow on the dock as two young men and a young woman sat in a circle laughing, their faces all pointed at a conspicuously empty space between the girl and the skinnier boy.

"There's a ship, they say," the other boy said in a hushed whisper after the laughing subsided, "faster than any vessel in the Queen's navy. Her sails are riddled with holes, her hull is so pocked with scars from battles-"

The scene around him dissolved into velvety darkness and Barbossa glanced back through the door at the hallway, but the doorway had begun to melt with the surroundings. In another moment it was gone altogether.

He was now in a dining room. The waning sunlight poured through the windows and lit the table set for four warmly. A middle-aged couple sat on either end, and a young man sat on one side. A half-eaten plate sat lonely at the fourth setting.

"-so nice to have you back, dear," the woman was saying to the boy. The boy nodded, chewing for a moment and then swallowing before speaking. "I'm only here for a few days. Monroe's filling in for me as a favor for now, but I hate to keep him away from his new wife."

There was silence at the table. Barbossa looked at the man at the end. It took him a moment to recognize him as the old colonel, for he sat several years younger before him. His face looked thoughtful, and then he spoke.

"I quite agree, it's just not the same without you, son." His wife murmured in agreement, and then looked to the man. "If it's alright with your father."

After another moment of silence the colonel nodded. The boy set his napkin on his plate and stood, glancing at his father, and then left.

Bewildered at this exchange, Barbossa's eyes landed on the fourth plate. It was now empty.

The scene faded to blackness around him_, _and then _The Pearl _was before him_._ He recognized his own men scurrying about, and looked behind him to see a slightly younger version of himself by the portside railing. He watched himself grasping his hands in the air, and could hear his own words waft across the deck, and suddenly he understood.

"-Farthin', I won' be needin' any of yer pity."

Barbossa was moving within her memories, but she wasn't there. He resisted the urge to slam his fist into the nearest wall or shipmate. All this time he'd been searching for her, trying to remember. Finding her had been almost a punishment. Now she had slipped away again.

Tia's words echoed in his head. Miranda had lost her mind. He had to find it. If her form was missing in these memories, perhaps it was somewhere else. Without thinking, Barbossa seized the handle of the door leading into the captain's cabin, hoping to work it out in the safety of somewhere he knew. He thrust the door open and found himself looking back into the carpeted hallway.

Barbossa glanced back, still disconcerted at seeing a duplicate of himself.

"-knew my plans for ye once the curse is lifted, ye'd not be so eager to help," his own voice reached him. Leaving the door ajar, Barbossa made his way over to his double, seemingly holding something in his curled fingers. Barbossa reached out to where Miranda's form had once been, but felt only air.

Back in the hallway, Barbossa contemplated the closed doors on either side of him. Each one looked no different than the one beside it, except the one on the end. Barbossa passed each door until he reached it, and hefted the bar aside. There was a ringing in his ears as he pushed the door open. A cold breeze lifted his hair as he gazed into the darkness before him. The coldness from within crept under his skin and deep into his very bones with slow deliberation. He slammed the door, rubbing his hands together, but he didn't replace the bar.

The harmless-looking door beside it opened into a starlit world. Barbossa stepped in and realized he stood above the water of her memory. Before him was a small boat, almost lost in the dark water spattered so brightly with starlight it was difficult to find where the water ended and the heavens began on the horizon.

The water began near the boat began to churn, sending the reflected stars into a dizzying dance as Tia's head rose from its depths. She spoke so low that Barbossa missed her words and stepped warily closer.

"-bear and extra sou'el. So now you must choose. Him sou'el or your ow'en mind."

One by one the stars began bursting all around Barbossa, expelling brilliant white light over the scene. The boat and Tia disappeared into the brightness until Barbossa stood alone in a void of white.

Slowly, as if a blindfold had been lifted and his eyes grew accustomed the the bright daylight, shapes began to form in the white. Colors slowly stained the void and Barbossa felt gently-rocking wood beneath his feet.

He was alone on _The Pearl._ Sunlight streamed down to the clear blue Caribbean water and warmed the air. The ship seemed to be sailing of its own accord towards a dark tower of stone erupting from the calm water. Barbossa had never seen anything like it in all his travels and wondered where Miranda had been to remember this foreboding edifice.

The ship drew close enough for Barbossa to see a dark doorless entry just above the crashing waves. Although Barbossa couldn't explain it, there was something very wrong about the entire tower, from its sloping sides to its irregular-shaped stones, to its gaping sunless maw. A shiver crept through his skin, and he felt his muscles tense in apprehension.

Despite his revulsion to the tower, something within him was pulling him inexorably towards it. Before he could quite grasp his own options, he found he'd shed his jacket and boots and the waves were rising up to greet him.

The water was warm, inviting. He swam towards the entrance and heaved himself onto the stone ledge. A cold gust sighed from the dark entrance and Barbossa hesitated. It was black as pitch before him. Slow step by slow, cautious step, he allowed himself to become incased in the darkness.

/\

Rich colors filled his eyes as he looked up at a burnished gold sunset, pink splashes dancing across the deep blue basin of the sky. The grass beneath his feet was a green more dazzling than emeralds, and the ocean beyond sparkled like diamonds set in turquoise enamel.

A small house stood a ways from the sea cliff's sharp edge, and behind the house linens hung from a line billowed in the cool, tangy breeze. Barbossa could see the silhouette of a woman standing behind one of the tablecloths, her outline perfect in the setting sun behind her. In one flourish she'd removed the pins and shook the linen from the line.

Her face held exquisite peacefulness and joy. Her mouth was set in a natural smile, and her stray locks of hair curled around her temples and neck in the wind. Her dress was hemmed at the knees like a peasant's, but the fabric was a clean, rich blue. Barbossa's eyes strayed to her bare legs and saw they were an unblemished, perfect cream with no sign that there had ever been scars snaking up to her thighs.

Their eyes met, and her set smile broadened. She folded the cloth hastily against her hip and dropped it into the waiting basket before running to him. Automatically, Barbossa spread his arms to infold her, and she embraced him.

"I missed you so much, darling," she laughed, looking up at him. Up close, her eyes sparkled almost as brightly as the sun-speckled waves below. Everything about her, from her small, delicate feet to her wind-tousled hair was a masterpiece of human design. She was perfect.

She drew back, smiling, and beckoned him towards the house. "Dinner's just about ready."

As Barbossa watched her laughing, gesturing figure, he noticed the large diamond set with sapphires catching the light of the setting sun as it glittered on the third finger of her left hand.

The inside of the house was dim in the waning light. Barbossa stood perfectly erect in the parlor, looking at the single painting hanging from the wall.

It was of her and himself, both dressed richly and staring solemnly at the opposite wall. The painter had magnificently captured the dancing light in her eyes. Her hand was ringed in the painting, and so was, to Barbossa's surprise, the painted version of him. A gold ring joined the collection with the other rings he customarily wore.

"I could just look at that painting all day," she said, startling him. Her shoulder was leaned against the doorway and her head tilted to the side. She was smiling. "Come to dinner, Hector."

_Hector_.

She had never called him that before. In itself it was harmless, but hearing it as he looked at the painting inserted slivers of suspicion in his mind. Something was not right. He sat down at the table heavy with food, and looked at her. She was still smiling as she said, "Let's pray."

Not a religious man, this set off more bells in his head and made him even more uncomfortable as she took his hand and spoke. "Lord, thank you for this meal and for bringing my husband safely back to me. Protect us and keep us. Amen.

"How was your trip?" She continued, spooning vegetables onto his plate. Her eyes never left his face.

The words in her prayer had rendered him entirely speechless. The longer he stared into those sparkling gray eyes the more they reminded him of the bright glittering he'd seen so many times in the eyes of men mere hours before dying of fever. He fought to control his expression as he tried to think of the relevance of the similarity. The men had been sick, their skin near boiling, and near the brink of . . .

Barbossa pushed himself away from the table so hard wine sloshed from both glasses. She made a small noise of alarm as he stormed out of the house and made his way to the edge of the sea cliff. He looked around at the deepening sky, the undulating sea. The breeze slipped around his clothes and whispered in his ear. A gull cried somewhere above him.

And this world was her madness.

He thought of the dull, vacant eyes he'd beheld in the prison cell. Her entire world was now within her own mind, and she'd built it to be a paradise.

"Hector, are you alright?" she called from the doorway. Barbossa turned to look at her. _This woman was not the real Miranda Farthing_, he thought, looking with new eyes at the perfection before him. She was without flaw. He realized now that her face was not the same as he remembered, nor her hair. She was taller in her own mind. A seizing need to leave this brilliant world was upon him, and he pushed past her through the doorway, searching for a closed door that would lead him back to the hallway.

He wrenched open door after door only to see a sitting room, a bedroom, and a set of stairs leading down.

He was trapped.

The woman who was not Miranda grasped at his sleeve, worry etching her perfect face. "Darling, what's wrong?"He shrugged her off to reemerge in the waning sunlight. He took deep breaths, trying to make sense of this madness.

He had to find her. But if she wasn't within this world of her own creation, where then? His eyes searched the vastness of the twinkling sea before him. At one point the sea cliff sloped gently to the water's edge, and from there a small jetty protruded into the water. A small rowboat covered in heavy canvas bobbed on the waves.

"Was it something I said?" She was right behind him, and he went rigid at the sound of her voice. She rested a hand on his shoulder. "I don't think you've said a single thing all evening. What's wrong, Hector?"

He jerked his shoulder away from her touch and snarled at her. "Stop it." She looked taken aback and hurt. She opened her mouth but he cut her off. "Where is she?"

"Who?"

"M'randa Farthin'."

Her eyes searched his. "I _was _Miranda Farthing, but I took your name when we married. Darling, don't you remember who I am?"

"I've never met you b'fore," Barbossa spat. "Where is she? I won't be askin' again."

"I don't know," she pleaded, but her eyes flicked behind him and betrayed her. He seized her by the shoulders and pushed her to the edge of the cliff.

"What d'you know?" He demanded softly, snaking one hand to her long, pale throat and tightening his grip. She gasped, her eyes wet with tears.

"She's gone," she cried, reaching her hands to his to release his hold on her neck.

"That be a lie, ya cursed fury," Barbossa snapped.

"Isn't this better?" she begged, trying to turn her head to look at him as she gasped for breath. "Both of us here? Nothing can hurt us here; we're the only ones. This is our world, Hector. _Ours_."

Barbossa turned slightly and pulled her to face him, both hands curled around her slim wrists. "What've ya done with her?"

A tear slid down her cheek as her eyes looked down. He followed her gaze to the docked boat, and released his grip. She crumpled to the ground, sobbing.

The slope was steeper than he'd realized and it took some time making his way down, but it allowed him time to think. She'd hidden Miranda somewhere reachable by boat. His eyes traced the flat horizon hopelessly as he searched for some sign of another island.

Nothing.

He kept telling himself there was no hurry to find her, but as he drew nearer to the shore the ocean itself seemed to expand. He looked back up to where he'd left the woman and wondered if she was broadening the world to make his task more difficult. He swore darkly under his breath.

He slid the last few feet on the loose sand and stepped onto jetty. If there weren't oars in that damned boat he'd march back up the slope and demand the woman come up with something he could use.

He untied the lacings of the canvas, yanked it free, and froze.

She lied on her side at the bottom of the boat, curled into a tight ball. Her hair was matted and obscured her face, her ripped, dirty dress barely covered her scarred legs. Her breathing was long and deep.

Barbossa realized he recognized the boat. It was the one she had been in under the magnificently starry sky. The boat where she'd lost her mind. She'd never truly left it.

Barbossa slowly extended a shaking hand towards her thin frame and brushed the hair from her face.

The moment his skin touched hers, the sun-which had spent hours setting into the ocean- suddenly extinguished, pitching the world into the darkness. A deep humming filled Barbossa's ears and as it grew in intensity, the ocean began to froth and boil. He scooped up the slight frame and ran back to the shore. Starlight illuminated his path as he struggled back up the slope.

He heard a shriek from the woman somewhere in front of him. She was suddenly at his side, pulling his arm desperately.

"Please forget her, I'll do whatever you say. Let me keep my world," she begged. He shook her off, and she expelled a scream of anger.

Barbossa didn't know what he was doing. He hurled himself towards the front door of the house-it seemed like the only option. As he kicked the door open, the darkness of the interior was so complete he paused for a moment before plunging through the doorway.

Blackness flooded his eyes and ears, the sounds of the woman screaming and sobbing has vanished entirely. He was falling. He curled his own body protectively around the slight one he held.

The soft ground met him with painful force. He opened his eyes to see a ceiling of moulded walnut. Gently rolling the form off his chest, he sat up. He was back in the hallway, facing the open door at the end. He twisted to see the opposing end of the hallway. Where there had been only a black void was now a brilliant rectangle of white.

He gathered the body up into his arms again and pushed his way through the doorway of light.


	30. Returned

**Warning! **With both relief and sadness I have found the end of Barbossa and Miranda's weary travels. This is the last chapter.

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**Chapter Thirty**

**Returned**

Miranda's eyes flickered open. She was lying on her side in the sand. His body lie beside her. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember. A bullet burning, his lifeless body, the sea of starlight, and years and years of blackness.

Almost afraid at what she might find, she reached to his hand, and gently held it. Warmth. Her eyes snapped open and she tightened her grip. A deep breath expanded his chest, and she watched his eyes slowly open.

Barbossa looked up at the gray sky of dawn above him. The memory returned to him. He rolled his head to the side to see her form. Her face was the perfection he'd remembered of so long ago. Her tangled hair had never looked more lovely. Her parted lips captured his gaze momentarily until he raised his eyes to meet her shining gray ones.

Miranda smiled, her dry lips cracking. "You're alive," she barely whispered.

"Aye," Barbossa breathed. "And you've returned t'me, Miss Farthin'."

A half-laugh, half-sob broke in her throat as her eyes filled. She pressed her palms to her eyes and rolled on her back, a shudder wracking her frame. She felt his presence draw closer.

"Ain't nothin' t'be sad 'bout." He rose into a kneeling position and removed her hands from her face.

"I never thought I'd-" Miranda began, her voice tremulous, but Barbossa wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to his chest. His lips found hers before she could finish.

He'd never felt the warmth of her touch before, never known the true feeling of her mouth to his. Every other sensation he'd felt since the curse was lifted paled to the taste of her skin and feel of her body pressed against his. Ten years. He'd have waited a hundred if he had to. Her warmth brought him everything he'd ever searched for.

Miranda wrapped her arms around him as she deepened the kiss, feeling his hold tighten around her waist before sliding up her back to cradle her head in his hands.

Barbossa felt he couldn't pull her close enough to him. He wanted to draw her into his very being as he tasted her tears on her lips. Warmth surrounded him as he realized there was nothing he wouldn't do for this lovely creature that clung to him.

They at last parted, beholding at each other in silence. When Miranda looked into his eyes she saw justified all the pain and trials she'd gone through to bring him back. She wondered what he'd done to save her from the darkness.

"How did-" but Barbossa shook his head.

"Some other time," he insisted. "I reckon yer story be just as int'restin' as mine."

Miranda smiled through her tears. She looked into his face and saw the man who'd imprisoned her, the man who'd kissed her through the bars of the cell in the brig, the man who'd saved her from the fire, the man who'd killed so many just to feel her touch, the man she'd turned her back on, and the man whose body she'd dragged across the world to bring back.

There was no fear, no doubt, no worry in her mind that he was the only man she would ever love, the only man she could live her life with. He seemed to sense her sentiment and stood, whirling her to her feet. He spun her in his arms before drawing her close again.

"I stole a wedding from you once, Miss Farthin'. I b'lieve I be owin' you one now."

Miranda froze, her eyes wide and her mouth in an "o" shape. She cocked her head to the side and furrowed her brows. "Was that a proposal, Captain?"

He pulled her into brief kiss and grinned ruefully. "As close ta one as ye'll be gettin' from me. I'm not but a lowly pirate, an' eloquent tradition be above me ways."

Miranda laughed, her face sore from smiling so broadly. She covered her mouth with her fingertips for a moment and looked at him, eyes shining. "And whatever will we do with ourselves? Pirates aren't known for being traditional breadwinners."

"Steal a ship, sail the world," Barbossa waved his arms extravagantly. "I know a cave full o' more gold an' jewels than could last a lifetime. Minus 882 coins that we won' be needin', o' course."

"That sounds perfect." Miranda turned to the ocean, the waves grey from the dawning sky overhead. The tide rolled in and out, casting a tangy breeze over her face, pushing back her hair and delighting her sense. This was completeness. She felt Barbossa join her side as they both looked out to the great, vast sea before them.

"Aye, Miss Farthin'." he agreed, "That it does."

**The End**

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**Final Note**:I didn't realize until about a week ago that I started this fanfiction in July of 2006. Almost five years to finish. Crazy! I've loved writing it though, and I truly hope that you've enjoyed it. A special shout out to reviewers Nydt, Luminous Faith, Eleuteria, Countcresent, pendras corniellius, Orchidya, Green Eyed Faerie, Suzanne, and Tozi-all of your reviews in particular inspired me to write (as I've already mentioned) even when I had no clue how to keep going.

If you're interested in my music inspirations (and music I played on continuous loop as I wrote):

Believer, by Goldfrapp

Starlight and Guiding Light, by Muse

Tango Ole Gaupa, by Andre Rieu (mainly in chapter sixteen as Barbossa and Miranda dance)

Music from the Pirates of the Caribbean soundtrack including (but not limited to): Jack Sparrow, The Kraken, Davy Jones (Especially so-I'm a sucker for music box melodies), Swords Crossed, Moonlight Serenade, Drink Up Me Hearties, Up is Down, At Wit's End, What Shall We Die For, and One Day

I put a lot of myself into the story, and to have it received so well- well, it's such a wonderful feeling! Thank you all so much for reading a story that has become such a part of me. Much love!


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